A Feather in the Wind
by jessa-beth
Summary: Two years, ten months, and fourteen days have passed with no contact between them, and John still feels like home. Being close to him again is what makes that sacrifice worth it. Post-TRF. Warning for fluff and character death.
1. Prologue

_Inspiration for the title_:

Yours is the cloth, mine is the hand that sews time,  
His is the force that lies within.  
Ours is the fire, all the warmth we can find.  
He is a feather in the wind

-_ All of my Love, Led Zeppelin_

* * *

**Prologue**

A cigarette dangles between two long fingers. His hands have gotten thin lately, Seb notices, twirling the unlit fag between his knuckles as he observes the emphasized bones. His wrists are so skinny. He sighs, sweeping a free hand through his unkempt hair. It makes sense. He hasn't been eating much over the last few years. How long has it been? _Almost three years,_ pipes a voice in his head. Its tone is sing-song and familiar. Seb closes his eyes. A beautifully demented smile is swimming in his head again, and his heart feels heavy with its image.

Nearly always, the face haunts Seb's mind. He feels trapped by it, captured by its lingering presence. Oh, he knows it's not really there. He's not fucking _crazy_ or anything. Jesus. Snorting, he lights the cigarette with a flourish, and inhales deeply. He holds the breath in for a long time, savoring the the fantastic pulse of tobacco in his lungs before exhaling. The warm relaxation floods him, and he stands calmly to gaze out the window. The street is fairly crowded today.

Sebastian had situated himself here in this flat on Baker Street nearly three years ago on Jim's order. Sometimes Jim stayed with him, and they'd watch 221b together with quiet interest. Sometimes Jim's arms slipped around Seb's square shoulders while he discussed his plans, and sometimes Seb would moan at the breath on the back of his neck as he loaded his rifle. But those days are over now, and with a great heave, Seb pushes the memories from his mind.

It was Jim's last order to him: to reside here, to keep his aim fixed on the ex-army doctor, and to kill him if Holmes did commit suicide. The detective had done it, of course, but without a word from Jim, Seb still refused to leave his station. At first, he had battled with himself about it, furious with his own sentiment. But over the years, he had come to accept that he felt obliged to stay here out of resentful loyalty. Jim had set him up well here, anyway. Seb is now so well off that he doesn't even need to work to keep himself living here comfortably. He thanks Jim every morning and every night for the life he has, and spends his days watching crap telly, glaring bitterly out his window, and polishing the smooth metal of his gun over and over again until it shines.

He takes another long pull on his cigarette, and it sizzles in the quiet empty flat. Evening is settling over the street. Long dark shadows stretch across the pavement as the sun sets, and Seb lets out a satisfying puff of smoke through the open window. He is settled on the window sill, one leg pulled up to his chest so he can rest an arm on his knee as he flicks ash into the street below. The little glow of the cigarette fades just as the darkness settles, and with a great sigh, Seb heaves himself from his position to serve himself dinner. Frozen dinner, of course. He remembers, as he does nearly every evening, the way it felt to lounge on the sofa while Jim cooked. One would never think Jim was ever the type to wear an apron, but he was. He was so many things, and unexpected was the quality in him that Seb misses most.

While his dinner turns slowly in the microwave, Seb pours himself a generous glass of scotch. Anything to ease the erasure of his memories. Anything to help him forget Jim's absence- the man had been not just his boss, but also his only friend in the world. Frowning, he watches the artificial light dance on the amber liquid as it swirls, and he scratches his stubbly chin. Another cigarette. Yes. That would round out this meal perfectly. He exits the kitchen, the machine beeping behind him to alert him to his hot meal. He approaches the side table where he'd left the box, and draws from the carton another cigarette. He sets it between his lips and reaches for the lighter. As the end catches alight and he clicks the lighter closed, he wafts dazedly to the window again out of habit.

His heart experiences a drop. No. No, no, no. It _couldn't_ be. Absolutely not. Sherlock Holmes is dead. Sherlock Holmes had thrown himself from the roof of St. Bart's. Seb is sure of it. He'd seen the body from across the street, and seen John Watson's certain grief. There is no way that the tall dark man in the glasses and the layered jumpers could be him. Yet a flash of those eyes gave Seb serious uncertainty. The man does look rather like Holmes, but he really can't be sure. The disguise (if it is ne) is fairly good, and he's wearing glasses which cover the distinct Holmes eyes.

Sebastian's chest is hammering, and it's bloody painful. If Holmes is alive, then Seb's original command, to take out John Watson, still stands. He reaches for his rifle as the homeless-looking version of Sherlock Holmes opens the door of 221b and enters swiftly. Damn it. If that was really him... but Seb can't be sure. He needs more proof. He may be ruthless as all hell, but any impulsiveness in this mission would have upset Jim, and he can't... he just can't bare to think that...

He sets himself up at the window sill, his rifle poised and his eyes mad with obsessed rage, and watches 221b silently, just _waiting_ for another look at this guy; waiting for the proof he needs to shoot Watson dead. His dinner sits abandoned in the microwave, which beeps every few minutes in a futile attempt to remind Sebastian Moran to keep living his life.

* * *

**Warning: **_This story is gonna get super fluffy and then super depressing. No. Seriously. Don't fucking read it if you don't like depressing. Let me know what you think, though!_


	2. Home

_Enjoy! Let me know your thoughts, as ever!_

_And by the way, yes. There will, in fact, be more. This will be a rather short story (probably about four chapters in total), and I WILL finish it. I promise._

* * *

Sherlock is sweating. When the door closes behind him, before anything else, he tugs off his many jumpers and sighs. He hates playing homeless, but for safety, it is a necessity. When the heat lifts and he can feel the cool musty air of 221 on his torso again, he removes the sunglasses and looks around. How strange it is to be back here after two years, ten months, and fourteen days. The place still smells the same, still like lemony cleaning solutions and stale air. He had missed it. He breathes deeply with his eyes closed, leaning against the wooden door, a little bewildered. Mrs. Hudson would come around the corner any second now, and then...

Yes, there it is. The shriek and clatter as she drops the tea she was carrying. He rushes to her side as she falls, and catches her tiny unconscious figure in his strong arms. He fans her, waiting for the tell-tale sounds of John's footsteps upstairs. He knows the noise of Mrs. Hudson's tea cup shattering would rouse him no matter what, for that's just how John is: he _cares_. He cares so much. But... wait. Sherlock's certainty falters a little, for the movement from above sounds different than it should. There is a loud clunk after every uneven step. _John's cane_. Sherlock closes his eyes and lets out a despairing breath.

"Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock hears the call and stiffens, even though he knew it was coming. He had been so sure; had known so certainly that he wanted John to help him in his last mission, but now... God, what is different? Is he simply nervous? Preposterous, he sniffs to himself. He straightens up, and carries his landlady into her sitting room to lay her comfortably on her sofa.

John's footfalls reach the bottom hall landing. Sherlock hears a pause, and knows his friend has spotted the broken china. With a deep breath, Sherlock takes his chance. He emerges without a word from Mrs. Hudson's flat, and observes his friend cautiously. It takes John a few long seconds to register his presence.

The doctor is dressed in sweats and a t-shirt, and has been wearing the same clothes for the last two days, so he obviously hasn't left the flat in that long. He is unkempt, and there are massive bags under his eyes. There is a deadened look on his face that strikes Sherlock to his core. It is not the first time Sherlock has laid eyes on John since the day of his false suicide, but it _is_ the first time he is seeing John in such a state. On the other occasions, he had been able to tell from afar that John was miserable, but _this_-

"You." John's mouth is hanging open. His eyes are glossy and far away. "No."

"Yes, John," and Sherlock is pleased at how natural the name still feels around his tongue.

"No."

John is backing away, his cane clattering to the floor where it lies forgotten from that point on. Sherlock takes a step toward him, but John holds up a hand. "No," he says again. "You can't exist. This is all in my head. You can't be. You're dead."

Sherlock realizes he is holding his breath while John is speaking. He exhales hard before taking another deep breath. "John," he repeats carefully. "It's really me. I was never dead, I'm afraid."

John shakes his head. "No," he whispers. "But I saw you, I..." He wrings his hands, and an expression of total destruction crosses his face. It tugs Sherlock's heartstrings. "I felt you. You were pulseless, and I saw... I saw the blood, there was... so much _blood,_ and your head was..." John is white as a sheet, and Sherlock can tell what's about to happen before John can. As the ex-army doctor keels over, Sherlock rushes forward to find himself supporting the second fainted body of the night.

"Damn," he breathes to himself. "Not again." He gazes down at John's gentle features with trepidation. The dead weight in his arms feels like home. His fingers itch to touch John's cheek, but he resists. Instead, he heaves John up the steps to 221b.

He rests John's body on the landing outside the door, realizing anxiously that if he enters the flat and can be seen through the window, he and John would both be in terrible danger. His disguise had gotten him home easily enough, but he could not risk it again. He smiles down at John. "I'm home, John," he whispers, but John does not answer. Annoyed, Sherlock slaps him.

John groans, and pushes himself up on his elbows. "Sher-" He goes speechless. He gazes up at Sherlock with an expression of disbelief and unmasked agony.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm... betrayed."

"That's not what I meant."

"I know it isn't." John sits upright and looks around. "Did you drag me up here?"

"Yes."

"Well, bloody hell. No wonder I feel like one big bruise."

"No lasting damage was procured. I made sure of it."

John blinks. "Good to know," he says. He looks apprehensive.

"John," Sherlock says hurriedly. "I know this is a lot for you to take in, but the work I've been completing in my absence from you is not yet complete. I want you to help me finish it."

The ex-army doctor looks bewildered. "You... have got to be kidding me."

"I'm not."

John's eyes widen. "Sherlock!" he suddenly bursts, standing in a rush and gesturing emphatically. "It's been three bloody years! I've thought you were _dead_ this whole time, and now you tell me... now you fucking come back and tell me to come _help_ you, like nothing has changed! Fuck, I _buried_ you! I spoke at your funeral! I was like a grieving fucking _widow_, Sherlock! Have you any bloody idea...?" John's voice breaks, and he goes still. His head droops into his hand, and he sighs. Sherlock is uncomfortable. Of course he has no idea what John's been through. How could he? Ordinary reactions escape him. He may not understand it, but he knows that mourning is a painful time for normal people, so he tries to be sympathetic.

"Of course," Sherlock agrees quietly. "I'm..." He swallows, and their eyes meet. He's never seen John look so damaged, and for some reason the terribleness of it touches his chest in a way that brings tears to his eyes. He blinks back the feeling and clears his throat to try again. "I'm... sorry."

A breathy laugh escapes John. "You're sorry," he says quietly to himself. "Well," he scoffs, "that makes it alright then, doesn't it? Well done! Welcome home, Sherlock, come on in and have a cuppa."

"Oh, stop that," Sherlock hisses. "I did it all for you, idiot."

John rolls his eyes. "Oh, for _me_, did you? You faked your bloody death for _me_?"

"Moriarty gave me no choice," Sherlock growls. "I know you never stopped believing in me, and for that I have been endlessly grateful. Moriarty forced it on me. There was no other alternative. If I hadn't, you would have been... and Mrs. Hudson... and Lestrade... would all have been killed."

John looked momentarily sympathetic, but his expression hardened again rather quickly. "And when your name was cleared? When the press blew a ton of holes in the story of Richard Brook and realized Moriarty was real? Where were you then? Moriarty hasn't been heard from in years. Why the hell didn't you come home?"

Sherlock is frustrated and impatient. "Moriarty's web stretched further than you will ever believe. I was out there every day, snipping each thread of his web to destroy that bastard's evil influence. There is only one left, and that is Moran. He was Moriarty's right-hand man, and it was his trained sniper's aim which would have killed you if I hadn't killed myself. Moriarty's most trusted man, assigned to take out mine. Fitting."

John appeared to be rendered speechless at last. This lifted Sherlock's hopes considerably. "Look, John, I know you're upset," he cooed, "but Moran is still out there. All this time, and he's never lifted his aim. I thought he might be watching you, but I couldn't be sure. But now... I've recently received information which proves that Moran is here. Right across the street. His gun has probably been on you all this time, simply out of crazed loyalty to his old boss. From what I have gathered, they were... close."

"What, like we were?"

The words seem to crumble something between them. "Were?" Sherlock repeats quietly, staring directly into John's eyes and looking positively dangerous. His voice was a rumbling baritone."Moriarty died, and Sebastian Moran remained steadfastly loyal, still ready to shoot you at any second. Are you saying that you would not have done the same for me? Are you saying taht you stopped believing in me? That you stopped defending me to strangers? I don't believe you did. It's the same kind of loyalty, John. Don't you dare use past tense on me now."

"Well goddamn it, Sherlock! I've thought you _dead_ all this time! Forgive me if I'm a little bloody _used_ to the past tense at this point! _Fuck!_" John throws his hands in the air, exasperated, and pushes open the door of the flat at last. Sherlock hesitates, gazing over the threshold at the window on the opposite wall. "So?" John asks from the sitting room. "Aren't you coming in?"

Sherlock does not answer. Instead, feeling clever, he gets on all fours. He crawls his way into the flat, his eyes still cautious of the windows, and slinks through the kitchen to make his way back into his bedroom.

Oh god, his own bedroom. He had missed having a bed to sleep in so much. Everything was still the same. His possessions had all gathered a fine sheet of dust, completely untouched. Much of the flat is still untouched as well; he had noticed that briefly on his crawl through it. His violin was exactly where he'd left it the last time he'd been here, and it too had developed a grey coat over time. His mess on the mantlepiece has been unmoved. There is still a knife stuck in the wall by the mirror, and several stacks of paper strewn around the floor. John had clearly been emotionally unable to touch any of Sherlock's things. He supposes it has something to do with sentiment.

Homesick, Sherlock immediately lies face down on his bed and inhales deeply through his nose as though he can absorb it through his lungs and keep it in him to carry around forever. He is safe here for now. He would feel a lot safer if he knew Sebastian Moran was either dead or behind bars, of course, but this will do for now. Hiding is not so bad when he's _home_ again. Ah. _Home_.

He turns and smiles at the doorframe where John is leaning. The shorter man looks very serious. "Sherlock," he says gently. "I really know what to feel about this. It's kind of intense. I've never been more relieved, but I've also never been more furious. I feel betrayed by the fact that you kept this from me, but also grateful and flattered that you did what you did to protect me."

"Friends protect people," Sherlock breathed.

John's lips press into a thin line. "Yes." His voice cracks as he speaks. "It's all very confusing for me, Sherlock. It may take me a while to be in the right mindset to help you again. I just... I mean, I feel like I'm still grieving. It hasn't hit me yet. The fact that I used the past tense is proof enough of that, isn't it?"

Sherlock nods, feeling an odd lump in his throat as he does. "Take your time," he sighs. "Just remember that your very life is still in danger until Moran is captured. So do hurry up with your _feelings_, if it is at all possible."

"So, by 'take your time,' you really mean 'please don't take your time, idiot.' I know you too well."

An amused smirk crosses Sherlock's face at John's words. They lock eyes. Sherlock feels a deep pull in his stomach, and pushes himself up onto his forearms. His mouth feels extremely dry when they're looking at each other this way. Something all-consuming and powerful is obvious behind John's eyes, and it hurts every time he gazes into them.

With a great exhale, John is the first to break the stare-down. "I can't, Sherlock," he sighs dramatically. "I just can't right now. I need some time." His eyes are wet. "Can we talk tomorrow?"

Sherlock sits straight up and watches John turn his back on him. He can see every muscle in John's back tighten up as he does, and Sherlock frowns. He will do anything to keep John safe, and to keep John happy with him. "Of course," he says in a voice that is rife with tension.

"Thank you," John says, and then, straightening his back to take on a posture reminiscent of his military days, he adds, "for everything." He leaves.

Sherlock does not expect himself to sleep. His mind is far too crowded by the thought of Moran's looming defeat to ever lose consciousness, he figures, so he resigns himself to staring pointlessly at the blank ceiling.

He does not remember drifting off, but when a creak in the floorboards wakes him some time later, Sherlock feels surprisingly rested, and barely groggy at all. It was the best sleep he'd received in _years_.

It is still dark out, and the light in his room is still on, but his dusty covers are thoroughly rumpled as though he had tossed in his sleep. Grumbling, Sherlock glances at the clock. The glowing numbers read _3:58AM_. He sighs, and listens. The squeak which had awoken him was the unmistakable sound of a footstep in the kitchen. He can pinpoint the exact wood panel that John must have set his foot upon. Rolling over, Sherlock wonders what John is doing up at this hour. He hasn't long to wait for an answer, though. His door falls open with a bit of a creak, and there John is. He looks bashful and weak.

"Nightmare," he explains.

Sherlock doesn't know what to say. "Ah," he provides uselessly.

"Afghanistan. You were there."

"Ah," Sherlock tries again.

John's sigh is loud and meaningful. He moves to Sherlock's bed and sits down upon it. Sherlock, feeling awkward, sits upright to be beside his friend. "Are... you... okay?" Sherlock attempts, and John smiles.

"I've had worse," he says. Sherlock notices that his hand is shaking. He touches the trembling fingers without thinking, and John flinches.

"Oh," says Sherlock quickly, withdrawing his hand. "I'm... sorry, I don't..."

But John reaches out and snatches his hand back. His tremor seems to have dissipated rather fast, Sherlock observes. Closing his eyes, he allows himself to feel John's pulse through the soft touch. It is faster than usual, and he feels particularly warm against Sherlock's cool hand. When he opens his eyes again, he finds John breathing heavily, staring at the place where their skin is touching.

John draws in a deep breath, and Sherlock watches him intently. "Er... d'you mind if I... I mean, can I... would you care if I, um..."

"Go ahead." Sherlock does not need John to finish that sentence. He knows John was going to ask if he could stay there for the night. The notion is acceptable to him, and he revels in the relief which spreads over John's expression, causing him to light up and practically glow.

"Thank you," John says on a calm exhale, squeezing Sherlock's hand a little tighter. "I just... want to know that you're... y'know..."

"I understand." Sherlock actually does. For the first time, he understands what is meant by certain aspects of sentiment. He has missed John's closeness over the years he's been away, and now he feels a lovely warmth spreading through him from their embracing hands. "John," he says, and realizes as he says it that he's not sure why. He has nothing to say. He simply grins a little stupidly.

John breathes a laugh. "What?"

Sherlock feels heat rise in his face, and is immediately embarrassed. "Just... your name. I don't know." He absent-mindedly strokes the back of John's hand with his thumb. It is soft.

"The great Sherlock Holmes doesn't know something?"

"Shut up. I spoke without thinking."

"The great Sherlock Holmes wasn't _thinking?_"

"Shut up!"

Before Sherlock even realizes it, a pair of lips touch his. Shock sends a flutter through his system, and he jumps slightly. The kiss was chaste and gentle, but Sherlock's heart is thudding like a drum. "I..."

"Sorry." John is flushed. He looks away, and lets go of Sherlock's hand. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have. I don't know what I was... I'm clearly a wreck right now, I guess, I just... I don't know." He stands abruptly. "I'll let you..."

"No." Sherlock stands with him, feeling bizarrely aware of his awkwardly long limbs and the way his arms hang at his sides. "Stay." John looks at him. He looks so broken. "You need to sleep. So sleep." He gestures to his bed.

A long moment of silence passes between them. It stretches tangibly, and Sherlock can practically see John's brain working and his heart thudding. He can, of course, feel his own heart banging away; it is pulsing in his throat, in his fingertips, and on the surface of his mouth where John had kissed him. He licks his lips and tastes John's breath. It sends a jolt through him that he can't explain, but does not break his gaze with John.

When the doctor finally sighs and gives in, Sherlock cannot suppress his glee. He smiles like a happy schoolboy. John watches him motionlessly as he pulls off his shoes and trousers, and clambers into bed. The duvet is a mess, but he attempts to smooth it out before John crawls onto it. The effort is futile, but John appreciates it all the same when he settles himself in the space at Sherlock's side.

Sherlock extinguishes the lamplight, but their eyes adjust to the dark quickly. They spend a long time staring at each other as though trapped in that position by their disbelief.

It takes twenty minutes for John's stare to begin weakening from exhaustion. His eyelids droop. Sherlock's comfortable smile at the softness of John nodding off is mirrored by the curve of John's lips just before he passes out into a deep and unresponsive slumber.

The five and a half hours of sleep Sherlock had already gotten were plenty for him, and he decides consciously not to seek any more tonight. Instead, he watches John sleep with definite interest for a long time.

It is close to 4:30AM when John emits a funny noise and wriggles a little closer to Sherlock. His body heat radiates, and Sherlock feels at peace with things for a while. John's hand comes to rest over Sherlock's heart, and the detective makes no objection. He does not stop observing him; he refuses to. He takes his chance to memorize every line in John's face, every twitch of his body, and every rise and fall of his magnificent chest. Sherlock finds himself comforted by the gentle wheezing of John's exhales and the tiny tickling puffs of breath that rhythmically strike his arm.

Two years, ten months, and fourteen days have passed with no contact between them, and John still feels like home. Being close to him again, like this, is what makes that sacrifice worth it.


	3. Heart

_So, this chapter feels a little long... like I rambled too much. PLEASE tell me what you think so that I can learn. Thanks. Enjoy!_

* * *

There is a flurry of eyelashes. A soft yawn is warm against Sherlock's chest, and the consulting detective can't help but smile. He cranes his neck down, burying his nose in the shorter man's hair. John smells vaguely of peppermint and sweat, but mostly he smells like warm skin. The heat of the doctor curled up against his stiff but happy figure has kept Sherlock contented enough not to be bored through the night. When John rolls over a little, Sherlock realizes there is a wet spot in the place where John's mouth had been. He doesn't mind. He missed John so much when he was away, and now it was like the man could do no wrong in Sherlock's eyes. The gentle warmth of John's leg resting over Sherlock's bare knee makes him feel oddly calm.

When John makes a gentle grunt, Sherlock tenses. His eyes narrow. He purses his lips, watching carefully.

John rustles and wakes, blinking sleepily up at the stony-faced Sherlock. He looks startled and bewildered for a second, slinking away from him. "I..." It takes him a moment to orient himself. "Sherlock, you..."

Sherlock glares at him. "I am what, John?"

"You're still here."

"You've been asleep on me for the last four hours. Where did you expect me to go under your weight?"

John rolls his eyes. "No, I mean..." He looks a bit flustered. "I mean, you're still..." He bites his lip.

"Ah, I see. You expected me to leave because you are traumatized by my previous absence. You are under the childish belief that once a person has left once, you can never trust them, because their past behavior is indicative of their future behavior, right?" John nods. "Well, that is absurd, John. I am not most people, and I did not just 'leave' you, John. I was forced away for your own safety. Mistrust Moriarty, if anyone. Not me."

"I can't exactly help it, Sherlock." John rolls over and sits on the edge of the bed, facing away from him. "It's not childish. It's human. I feel abandoned. For most people, emotions aren't just something you can direct with logic all the time. I know you're not most people, but the rest of us have to get by while wounds pile up to form scars over time. I'm not sure you grasp emotion the same way the rest of us do. Because to you it's 'dull.'"

"Well, it _is_ dull, John, and it is completely irrelevant to what matters."

"So it's irrelevant, is it, that I should miss my friend when he commits suicide? Don't you think _that_ matters?"

Sherlock is silent. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, and shifts forward on the bed to sit behind John's depressed figure. Feeling suddenly inept, Sherlock pats John's back. He sighs.

"I'm..." Sherlock hesitates. Of course John would be miserable. How could he think otherwise? He feels a stab of something in his gut, and almost calls it guilt. He swallows back his pride for now, because John is more important today. John's heart and John's safety are more important to Sherlock than anything else in his memory. It has always been the work; _always_. But once the work put John in danger, Sherlock felt his insides grow cold in a way they never had before, and that changed his whole perspective on his own heart.

His head is spinning. Everything changes with this realization. "I'm sorry," he sighs. John breathes deeply.

"I know. And... I'm sorry for crowding your bed last night. Did you sleep alright?"

"I was fine," Sherlock says quickly. "You were... warm."

John looks around and their eyes meet. Sherlock feels breathless. A long moment passes. "I, er... I appreciate you letting me stay. Really. It was good to feel you... alive."

"Yes," Sherlock agrees, not knowing what else to say.

The air is tense between them. The room seems to buzz with the disconcerting shift in their relationship, as though the space between them was alive and vibrating. Sherlock is cross-legged behind his friend and John is quivering slightly in response to the closeness. Sherlock can feel the fabric of John's t-shirt on his knee, and sighs, staring at the spot where the cotton meets his skin. He wants to touch him again, remembering the warmth of John's body draped over his, his cheek pressed gently to Sherlock's chest, and the softness of his lips when he had been surprised last night.

Sherlock is lost in his thoughts. He muses over his heart. He is no stranger to physical attraction, but the all-encompassing need for physical closeness that is seeping through his veins now is _definitely_ new. It boggles his mind. He shuts his eyes tightly and brings his hands up to meet his face, blocking out the sight of John which is muddling his brain.

"I almost got married."

Sherlock looks up again. John is looking over his shoulder at him. After a moment, the doctor shuffles around so that they're facing each other on the bed. He looks apprehensive.

John draws a deep breath which shudders on his unsteady lips. "I met someone," he begins, looking Sherlock firmly in the eyes. "You were dead." Sherlock bites his tongue. "And she was..." John's eyes glaze over dreamily.

"Her name was Mary. She was amazing. Just... really great in all respects. She was sweet and dainty and neat and clean and _nothing_ like you, but she loved my stories about you. She was a fan of my blog before we even met. I was in the worst place when I first met her, I mean, I was on the verge of... I mean... Well, I wasn't doing so well. I visited you... I mean your... Jesus, what did we even bury?" John's eyes are very wet. Sherlock feels a tug in his chest. "I visited your grave every month for nearly three years. Before Mary, it was every week. She helped me heal. She gave me peace. I asked her to marry me. Broke her poor heart when I realized that I..." John glances down at his hands which are squirming together in his lap. "Well, I... I couldn't go through with it." He shakes his head. Sherlock squints at the pained expression twisting across John's soft face, trying to understand the specifics. "I never thought I'd be that guy. God, I... I'm not that guy. I loved her, but I..."

"I don't understand." Sherlock's eyes are searching the lines of John's face desperately. He is anxious and racked with emotion that Sherlock cannot define. "Why would you...?"

John glances up. Sherlock notices that he is quite pink at the ears and just below his eyes. The pointed manner in which John's lips tighten says volumes to Sherlock's keen powers observation. He leans back slightly as it hits him.

"Oh," he says. "I see."

A flush creeps up John's neck. "What?" he sputters. "What do you see? I don't..."

"It's because of me, somehow. It's my fault. Somehow your grief for me prevented you from loving Mary to your fullest capacity. I don't see how, but obviously..." The press of John's lips tightens, and Sherlock remembers the momentary chaste brush of lips from last night.

"Oh. You have feelings for me."

John goes suddenly from quite pink to extremely pale as though drained of color. "Sherlock," he croaks, and the detective can't help but watch his mouth as it moves, his mind stuck on the feel of them. "You're too clever for me to deny it. You'd see right through me in seconds. Doesn't matter anyway. I've come to terms with it. Went through a serious time of it at first, but... I guess I've accepted it, now, but it's still weird. Weirder now that you're..." John's eyes are darting everywhere but at Sherlock. "I... I mean, I... Well, when I realized it, you were dead. I was a mess thinking that I would never be able to... but anyway. Now you're here and I guess I... God, I don't know." He rubs his eyes. "I can't think. This is so confusing."

Sherlock nods, trying to express the appropriate sympathy. "It should be. If it weren't, I imagine you would not be 'normal,' would you?"

"I don't know." John shrugs. "Maybe not. Nothing about us was ever normal, though. I mean... is. God, I can't believe you're _real!_ It's still so incredible. Every time I close my eyes, I think you're..." Their gazes meet again, and silence falls. Sherlock's breath catches, and John sucks in a rattling gasp.

"I love you, Sherlock. I don't know how long I've loved you, but I do. I really do, and I'm okay with it to the point where I'm not so ashamed to admit it. I know you won't reciprocate my feelings, though, and that's okay, Sherlock. I'll never push anything. Last night was..." John pauses. "A fluke. I have better self control than that. Last night was just so overwhelming, I didn't mean to slip up like that."

Sherlock suddenly realizes that he has been biting his lip. He doesn't know for how long. His lungs ache in his chest, but the empty sinking feeling in his stomach lessens that pain a little. It rumbles, loudly enough for John to hear it. He can ignore the hunger, but John can't, not even in this state of anxiety.

"Sherlock," the doctor says, his voice a little chastising, "you need to eat. When's the last time you did?"

"Yesterday morning."

"And what did you eat?"

"A carrot."

John breathes a groan of amused frustration. "Well that's something, isn't it."

For a second, everything is as it was. Their faces lighten into gentle smiles, and all the tension seems to expel from the room in a heartbeat. But the beat passes, and John's face falls. Sherlock clings to the curling smile on his own lips, not wanting to let go of the moment, but John's gaze has retreated to the space on the bed between them. "You should eat," he says quietly.

"I should," Sherlock says, "But I don't need to, and I can't leave this room."

John blinks, looking a little flummoxed. Sherlock waits a second for the truth to dawn on his friend. "Oh. Because if what's-his-name..."

"Because if Moran spots me through a window, you and I will both be in considerable mortal danger. Yes." Sherlock narrows his eyes, observing John's fleeting reaction. He catches a faint twitch of the eyelids and a minor pursing of the lips, but cannot decipher it. This bothers him.

"Right." John slides into a standing position with a surprising amount of grace for a man of his age. "I'll bring you something. And I'll, er..." He looks down at himself. "I'll get dressed."

Sherlock smirks. "Whatever for? You're not going outside today."

"How- no, nevermind. You always know everything. I shouldn't even be surprised anymore." John glares, shaking his head. "Still, Sherlock. I'd like to feel dignified by at least putting on trousers."

"You're wearing-"

"I mean something other than old sweats, Sherlock." John exits.

When he returns, Sherlock is still sitting in bed, sulking. He has thrown his old blue dressing gown around him so that it covered his bare legs and t-shirt. He is holding himself like a child, and looks up eagerly when John pushes his way into the room with a tray of food.

John is now dressed in a faded pair of jeans. Two plates of eggs and a pile of bacon and toast come towards him, and Sherlock sniffs the air hungrily like an abandoned dog waiting for his master. John's little breath as he places the tray on the bed in front of Sherlock is worth all the frustration of having him out of the room for that much time. "I knew you wanted food," John mutters. "Go on. Eat." When Sherlock does not make a move, John crawls onto the bed to sit across from him with the tray nestled between them. "Eat, Sherlock, or I will_ feed _you."

"That will not be necessary, John." He loves saying the name. John. He could repeat it over and over again and feel at home every time. As he reaches for the fork to shovel a mouthful of egg, the two men exchange a shy smile. Then, both are lost to the eggs John provided.

The smile on John's face splits into a grin as Sherlock begins to scarf down his plate. "Some things never change."

"Like your cooking," Sherlock snarls through a mouth stuffed of egg. "Still as ordinary as ever."

"Oh, shut it."

Again, things are good. Better than good, Sherlock considers. They never _used_ to eat meals in bed together while Sherlock was trouser-less. This is a new addition to their home life, one that Sherlock finds... comfortable, if not emotional the way John clearly does.

He glares a little while they eat, trying to figure out John; trying to deduce what John meant when he said, 'I know you won't reciprocate my feelings.' How could John_ know_ a thing like that? He couldn't. If Sherlock doesn't even know what his own feelings are about John, how could the average-minded doctor know something Sherlock doesn't? Conclusion:_ he couldn't._ What John says he _knows_ is merely an assumption, and a bad one at that.

When John moves on to his bacon, he begins to look contemplative. Sherlock wonders which dimension of his emotions he is analyzing now.

Swallowing his last bite of egg, John suddenly begins to speak hurriedly. The break in the silence is not surprising to Sherlock, though it might have been if he wasn't so clever. "I went through extra therapy after you..." He interrupts himself with a mouthful of bacon, as though he is deciding he is saying too much.

"Yes, I know," Sherlock growls impatiently as he fingers the crust on a piece of toast. "I _get it,_ already. You were hurt by my disappearance. I imagine you went through a lot. But you must understand, there will be time to dwell on that_ after_ Moran is beaten, and he _must _be... if we ever hope to return to our lives."

"My life has been going on without you for almost three years, Sherlock. I don't know if I can return to our life we used to share. I'm not sure I know how."

"Preposterous," Sherlock rasps. He feels a great twang in his heart that he cannot identify. It makes him feel choked and in agony. "Of course you can. We did it for years before, and..." His voice is oddly strained. How ridiculous. "I don't know how to live without that anymore." His words crack on their way from his throat. "It's why I came back to you before the danger had passed. I..." He swallows and draws a deep inhale. "I missed you."

John nearly chokes, but his eyes look warm. He finishes chewing, and swallows in a rush. His lips are parted and moist. His cheeks are flushed. His breathing seems to be elevated, and Sherlock can deduce that John is being affected by his feelings of love. Sherlock wants to ignore this, to pretend it's not happening, to simply continue convincing John that they could easily return to their old lives, but he cannot deny his own heart racing or the warmth pulsing in his cheeks.

He wants to ignore his body the way he always does, but this is not just gnawing hunger or itching eyelids. This is making his brain foggy, his motivation skewed, and his heart ache. That could prove dangerous. If he ever hopes to take down the hit-man Moran, he could not go on with this nagging feeling. He wishes John would respond. Then...

"You look like you've seen a ghost," John says humorlessly. He looks utterly miserable.

"What do you mean?"

John shrugs. "You look pale, and your mouth's hanging open, y'know..."

"Ah." Sherlock presses his lips together so his mouth becomes a thin line. What could he say to that? He was not altogether shocked by his physiological reaction to John, but he was certainly surprised by its effect on his heart.

In the past, he'd admired John's bare chest partially covered in a robe, but he'd never allowed himself to feel anything about it other than distant admiration. It is as though his prolonged distance from John had made suppression unbearable. Suddenly, he doesn't really care about his reasons.

He splits into an awkward smile.

"What?" John squints at him as Sherlock starts to laugh. "What? What is it? What's so funny?"

Sherlock snorts. "Nothing," he says. "Really."

"Then why are you laughing?"

"Because I've realized something startling."

"What?"

"I have discovered that I missed you, and that over the course of these two years, ten months and fourteen days without you, that I have become utterly useless. I feel like less of myself without you, John, and that is... completely and utterly mad. Ridiculous. Thoroughly amusing."

John looks stricken. He is leaning forward on the bed unconsciously, clutching his knees as though they would anchor him. "Sherlock, why are you saying this? You're not making things any easier. I'm trying..." He is swaying as though dazed. Sherlock can't help but laugh harder. "..._So _hard to resist my feelings, Sherlock. I'm trying _so_ hard not to just kiss you right here, because... God, it's so hard when you're _right there_, you're really alive, after all this time, and I just..."

Leaning over the tray and causing it to tip slightly on the mattress, Sherlock places his hands on either side of where John sits, and kisses him.

Time almost stops. The world around them slows to barely a crawl.

At first, John does not react. He blinks a few times as Sherlock's lips gently press against his own, but is so dumbfounded that he is rendered momentarily frozen.

A little confused (though Sherlock would never admit that), Sherlock retreats. He sits back, his heart pounding beneath his ribs. "I'm sorry," he says, not really meaning it as he basks in the lingering taste of John. "I thought you wanted..."

Suddenly there are warm hands on either side of his face. The heat of the touch spreads like a poison in his veins, and his eyelids flutter closed at the sensation. Then there is a thin mouth against his and a hot tongue pressing between his lips, and the involuntary groan Sherlock lets out is one he would deny later that day. John's gentle whine of victory is impossible to ignore, however; the vibration of it against Sherlock's angular lips sends a shudder right to his groin.

When John withdraws, Sherlock is completely aware of how silly he must look. He refuses to open his eyes for several long moments. He is panting, his lips parted. He imagines that his mouth must look red and raw. John smiles at the sight.

"You're gorgeous," the doctor mumbles.

"Don't be boring," hisses Sherlock, but there is a smile toying at the corners of his kissed and swollen mouth.

A long minute of quiet smiling lengthens between them. Then John shakes his head and laughs lightly. "We knocked over the food."

"Oh."

So they had. A few pieces of toast and bacon are strewn beside them. John gathers it back into a pile on the carrier with a chuckle. Both men look completely dazed and a little flustered. "So," John begins.

"So... what?"

"Er... so... are you just going to stay in this room all day?"

Sherlock bristles. "I _was _hoping I wouldn't have to," he sneers. "I _was_ hoping we could take down Moran so that we could get back to..."

"The way things were?" John finishes the sentence for him. Sherlock looks crestfallen and downcast as he nods. "I just... feel like that won't be as easy as you think it will be."

"I don't understand why not."

"Because, Sherlock," John sighs, gesticulating with his hands, "with... the way I feel about you, and now that you're... it's just... it's going to take a lot of getting used to."

"Why can't you put that aside until after Moran is captured and the danger has passed?"

"Damn it, Sherlock!" John throws his hands in the air. "I'm not_ like_ you! I can't just delete things or... save them for later like a... like a machine." His voice falters. He looks suddenly tragic and drained.

"What is it?"

"I called you a machine the day that you..."

"That is irrelevant now. Snap out of it. You_ know_ that I am not a machine. I have proved it to you with the knowledge that I did what I did for the protection of my friends. Friends protect people, John. You told me that on the same day."

"And you remembered it."

"I remember everything." They blink at each other. Sherlock's stomach is churning feverishly. "I remembered everything about you every day that I was gone."

John is breathless when he speaks. "And I spent every second you were dead remembering you, Sherlock. I thought about you constantly. Mostly I thought about the way you looked that day... marble white and spattered with blood. You looked... _beautifully_ fragile, like porcelain. It was sick." His eyes snap shut, and he digs his thumbs against his eyelids. Sherlock wonders if he's trying to delete the image of his falsified corpse, and he knows it is useless. John does not have the mind power for that.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock says again.

John waves that off, then heaves a dramatic sigh. "Look," he says through gritted teeth. "I'm just not ready to go back to the way things were. Not yet. I want to, really, but this..." He shakes his head.

"What?"

Suddenly John grows serious. His eyes are dark. It looks to Sherlock that John's eyes are prickling with tears. "Once we're out of danger, are you going to pretend these last three years never happened? To delete what I've told you about my feelings and pretend that we never...?" He looks as though he is in physical pain.

"Don't be ridiculous," says Sherlock, rolling his eyes. "Why would I delete something that pleasant?"

John laughs coldly. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe because it's 'irrelevant'? Because it doesn't 'serve the work'? Your usual bloody reasons." He looks miserable, and takes a grumpy bite of toast.

"As usual, John, you undermine my ability to feel."

John swallows his bite and throws the uneaten toast back down. "You've never given me reason to think you _do_ feel."

"My regrettable actions were my proof that I do! I've told you already, damn it!"

"Your actions sent me to my _hell_, Sherlock!" John's voice has reached the point of yelling. "Do you know what it feels like to be without your best friend for years? To know he killed himself? To realize you love him and know you'll never see him again because he's rotting underground?"

"I wasn't rotting, John. I never killed myself." His voice is low, and he is attempting a calming tone. "But I do know," he says quietly. "I do know what it feels like. You forget... I had to force myself to stay away from you. I had to force myself away from my best friend, too. Because that's what you are, John. You are my best friend. I never had_ any _friends before you came along, damn it. You are all I've ever had."

John's strangled sob of frustration is high-pitched and gut-wrenching. He moves the carrier onto the floor with shaky hands, and Sherlock watches him apprehensively. When he reemerges from over the side of the bed, John wraps his arms around Sherlock's neck and holds him- just holds him close.

John is warm. Sherlock returns the hug with genuine enthusiasm, and buries his face in John's neck. He can feel the damaged skin of John's shoulder through his thin t-shirt, and sighs against him. John's body temperature is on the rise.

"Pleasant?" he asks cautiously. Sherlock is a little taken aback.

"Hm?"

"You said... 'why would I delete something so pleasant?' So, you... you found it pleasant?"

Sherlock grins against John's soft neck. "I've never felt so comfortable and quiet, or so wanted as I did when you were kissing me, John. No one has ever wanted me before. Certainly not the way you do. And I've never wanted anyone else. In short: it was quite pleasant, yes."

He trails his lips along John's skin, pulling back the neck of John's shirt to gain more surface area. He feels the doctor tremble under his touch, and the power goes right to his head. He loves the control. He draws back his lips and touches John's plush skin with his teeth. John lets out a soft sigh which ruffles Sherlock's hair and warms the crescent of his ear.

"Mm," Sherlock rumbles, pressing his mouth to the warm neck.

A shuddering gasp can be heard right by Sherlock's ear. "This is too good. I don't want this to change," John rasps.

"It doesn't have to."

"Doesn't it?" John's arms tighten around him possessively. Sherlock can feel his nervous heartbeat against his chest. "I _know_ you, Sherlock. You're going to delete it like you do with everything that involves emotion."

"I have never deleted anything to do with you, John, and I would not start now. I _missed _you. You missed me. We _need _each other. You may underestimate my ability to feel for you, but I don't. This kind of affection is a perfectly logical next step for us."

John's shaky sigh sends tingles down Sherlock's spine. "And what if this ruins the potential to go back to the way things were?"

"Why should it?"

"I... I don't know, I guess. I just thought... I don't know."

"Sh," Sherlock hissed. "Stop it. It doesn't matter now. We're together again, and we've learned something about our relationship that could improve our lives considerably." He licks up John's throat, but John- despite his tiny whimper- still seems distracted.

"So...Have you ever...?"

"Dull."

"What?"

"That's a dull question, John."

"You don't even know what I was about to ask!"

Sherlock sighs, and pulls back to look John dead in the eyes. "Have I ever been in a relationship? Yes, John. I have. In University. It was a waste of time. I did not love him, and our physical relations were a fascinating experiment, but they were also a useless distraction and a waste of time. No other man has ever made me feel mentally stimulated enough."

"No other...?"

"No other except _you_, John. You are the exception to the conclusion I drew in response to all previous experience."

"What-?" John's confused expression is sweet and flattered, but boring.

This conversation is going nowhere for Sherlock. All has been said that could be helpful, he believes. He cuts John off with another kiss that is long, deep, and slow. Sherlock plows John's soft mouth with his eager tongue, and the doctor moans heartily around him. God, this is perfect. This feels _so right_.

Sherlock sighs into his friend's mouth as he realizes pleasantly that he cannot think. His mind has been quieted by the sweetness of John, and he feels overwhelmed by the stimulus, completely zeroed in on this one physical sensation. How is it possible? How could anything satisfy him as easily as a complicated case or intravenous cocaine? John: the exception to _everything_ in his life. He can barely believe it.

John's tongue explores Sherlock gently and carefully. Sherlock bites back, taking John's bottom lip between his teeth. He sucks on it, applying more pressure when this action elicits a gasp from him. John is weakening in Sherlock's grip, completely melting away when Sherlock pulls the back of his head in to force him closer, to devour his mouth more deeply than ever. John's muscles are relaxed, his arms limp at his sides, his lips soft, and his eyes fuzzy.

When John starts trying to speak, Sherlock pulls away. Both sets of pupils are dilated. They are breathing heavily. Sherlock enjoys John's hot breath on his open mouth, and licks his lips. He stares shamelessly at John's mouth as the man stutters, "I, er... I... Sherlock, I... this..."

"Is something wrong, John?" Sherlock's voice is a husky growl, his lips still touching John's as they exchange their breathy words.

"Wrong?" John seems perplexed, as though he has forgotten language.

Sherlock grins, and presses a kiss to John's nose. "You're okay. Everything's okay. I'm alive, I'm here, you're here, and this is _real_." He can tell that the sound of his voice is soothing to John, who leans into the sound as though it is an embrace of his very mind.

"Real," John repeats. His voice is dreamy. Sherlock kisses him again. "Real." Another kiss. "Real." This time, when Sherlock presses his shapely lips to John's, he wraps his arms around him and tugs him forward. His fingers are threaded into John's hair, and their pelvises are touching. Sherlock cannot recall at what point their legs became tangled. He can feel John's groin twitching beside his own, and feel his legs quivering through his jeans against Sherlock's bare thighs.

"Yes," Sherlock breathes, running his tongue along John's top lip so that the man shivers. "Yes, it's real."

Sharing each other's oxygen for so long, they are starting to feel a little heady and weak, but neither man dares to move. Sherlock would have described the unusual feeling as hovering in limbo. "John," he whispers, letting his eyes close and his forehead fall onto John's. "John. John."

"Sherlock. Real."

Sherlock can't seem to stop repeating his name, now. It feels so good to have his friend back again, and to feel him in this new way. The new information is swirling in his head, making him dizzy and quite foggy.

"John. John. John."

He puts emphasis on different parts of the name, tasting the way it sounds on his lips when spoken in any way. He loves it. He never wants to let it go.

A groggy and illogical part of his brain wonders if it's possible to swallow the word and absorb it. He wants to engulf all of John- to own him and keep him safe inside every cell of his body.

"John, I need you."

John's face contorts. "God, Sherlock, I..." He looks like he is in pain again. "I need you, too. I need you all the time... the whole time you were gone, I needed you... but you weren't there." His voice cracks.

"I'm here now." Sherlock was so heavy with wanting that his tone of voice was strained with it. "I needed you then, too, John, and I've needed you always. It's why I left: to keep you alive so that I could come back to you in the end because I _needed_ you to be safe. It was worth_ all _the time without you just to return and hold you here. All worth it so that this day could happen. I need you, John. I need you_ now_."

They are joined again in a blur of sighs and flushed skin and lips. Their legs are already locked around one another but as they wriggle to hold each other closer, they topple over and find themselves completely tangled.

Sticky tongues flourish together and an overwhelming pleasure is flooding Sherlock's brain, and _God_, he thinks,_ it's just like a chemical drug_. He wants to touch John; to kiss him and touch him all over and forever. Sherlock is cursing John's jeans, and John is, too, and they are kicked off of him in seconds. Their bare legs touch and it positively _burns_, sending fierce heat between their hips.

John's tongue is tasting Sherlock's cupid's bow when he slides his soft hands under the detective's bathrobe to push it off of him. The blue fabric is shaken from Sherlock's shoulders effortlessly, and winds up on the floor.

Sherlock cannot keep his fingers from crawling beneath John's t-shirt. As his skin meets John's abdomen, the doctor winces as though the caress is painful. Sherlock can imagine it burning like fire, judging by how hot the flesh is under his palms.

The surface of John's stomach is trembling like the rest of him, and Sherlock moans at the feel of his vulnerable shaken body against him. He scrapes his teeth along the line of John's jaw.

"Yes," he gasps as his spindly fingers reach John's nipples, pinching them lightly so that the doctor's breathing hitches. "John. _I need you_."

John lifts his arms, and Sherlock tears the t-shirt from his doctor aggressively. He is lust-addled and feral, and as soon as the shirt has been thrown over the side of the bed (to land precariously atop of the tray of food which lay forgotten), Sherlock digs his teeth hard into the soft spot at the nape of John's neck. John's resulting moan provokes Sherlock to roll on top of him, grinding his hips into the shorter man's wantonly spread legs.

"Sherlock," John hisses. "Please. Please. I love you. Don't leave me. Don't ever leave me." He is reeling and thrusting upward, twisting in Sherlock's grasp as though out of control of his own body. Sherlock holds him still.

"Please," he says again, desperation bubbling in his on-edge voice. "Your shirt."

John helps him peel the remaining garment off, and the men are now clasped chest-to-chest with their arms around each other. Only a thin layer of cotton separates them now, and Sherlock is_ furious_. He wants to possess John- to sink his teeth into his very heart and consume him; to be part of him, rip him open, and bend him to his will. He wants to love John into submission; to give him joy that one else ever could and keep him safe forever. _Safe. John. Safe. Home. Yes_.

With a guttural roar of frustration which causes John to flinch, Sherlock dives between John's legs and takes the corner of his pants in his teeth. He tugs hard, trying to tear it off, but John whines and pulls his head back with a gentle hand in his dark curls. "Stop," he says, and Sherlock looks up slowly. "St-stop. Wait." John swallows. "I've never... I mean... Never with a man..."

"I'll keep you safe," growls Sherlock. "Trust me."

"I'll always trust you to keep me safe."

John's underwear is off seconds later, and Sherlock wastes no time.

Heart-shaped lips stretch wide; pallid cheeks hollow; warm palms hold down jittery hips. John is moaning and writhing, his eyes rolling back and his fingers grasping wildly at the sheets around him.

"I... can't..." John rasps. "I can't... I'm too close already, Sherlock. Don't..."

Sherlock releases him, tugging his own underpants off with relative difficulty.

With long soft touches, Sherlock coaxes John into a state of sedated acceptance with his hands, and crawls lithely up John's body. The doctor watches him with a gorgeously raw expression, ready and open. Sherlock straddles John, pulling him up so that they are seated together again with their legs draped over one another.

Their loins are hot and pulsing together and with a single hand, Sherlock grips them both, and works them into ecstasy. They moan together, sighing and gasping into one another's open mouths. Sherlock's vision is blurring around the edges, and when John's hand comes to meet his between their interlocked legs, he comes undone.

Stars burst before Sherlock's eyes, and John lets out a slightly restrained cry as they reach their pleasures within seconds of each other. They are spilling over each other's hands, soiling their thighs and stomachs and the sheets beneath them. "I love you," John groans. "_God_, I love you, Sherlock Holmes. Please. _Yes_."

"John." Sherlock is deliberately inhaling John's breath as he clutches the man close to him. He nuzzles the bridge of John's nose. "John." God, that word feels perfect in his mouth. He could say it all day. "John."

The doctor smiles, grins, and finally bursts into laughter. It is the happiest Sherlock has seen him in two years, ten months, fourteen days and however many hours it's been. He feels his heart could burst with relief. This was all he wanted- for John to be happy and safe and _with him always_.

"Why are you laughing?" Sherlock is laughing, too.

John wipes away a tear, his shoulders shaking with laughter. "Oh, god. I don't know! I'm just so... so..."

"Overwhelmed? Happy?"

"Yes." John's neck slumps and he rests his forehead on Sherlock's smooth shoulder. Both men are still laughing. "Yes. Definitely happy. No doubt about that."

Sherlock breathes in the scent of John's hair. They are surrounded by the smells of sweat and semen, and it overpowers them. Sherlock's senses are full of it. "We... should clean ourselves up," he breathes through a languid smile.

John is still breathing hard as he nods heavily against Sherlock. "This is the messiest I've ever been after sex. And this is definitely also... the happiest."

Sherlock purrs against John's cheek, pulling him back to look him right in the eye. "Oh, just wait," he growls deviously. "I'll have you coming in ways you've never **dreamed** of."

For the time being, Sherlock has actually forgotten that they are in any danger. But as the blissful fog in his mind lifts slowly, he remembers. John is not safe. "John," he says in a deep, quiet, and remorseful tone. "You said you trust me to keep you safe. You said it when we were..."

"Yes, yes, thank you, I remember." John is blushing a deep crimson. Sherlock finds it lovely, and wants suddenly to lick the color from his cheeks.

Sherlock allows for a pause to admire John's gentle face. Then he heaves a great sigh.

"You must remember, John, that you are not safe here. Not while I'm here. I shouldn't have come, and I have acknowledged that, but I could not resist recruiting you for this last mission. I missed you too much." He strokes John's face with elegantly long fingers. "I couldn't stay away. It was a weakness, but it is done, and I... Well, I need to take him down now. Moran has to pay for putting you in danger."

John sighs, his eyes flitting away from Sherlock's face. He seems to be thinking hard. Sherlock loves how relaxed John appears to be. He wishes John could be this satiated always. _After today_, Sherlock thinks, _perhaps he can keep him that way_.

"Tonight," John whispers at last. He looks up, his caring eyes meeting Sherlock's fiercely blue ones. "Wait until tonight."

Sherlock smiles. "That's fine," he says quickly. "That's perfect. The cover of dark will help us, and..." His eyes sparkle as he smirks dangerously. "it gives us the rest of the day to remain hidden in this room."

"What-?"

But Sherlock interrupts him with a deft tongue to his jugular.

The tray on the floor is forgotten completely until the room starts to smell of bacon a couple of hours later. John switches it out for a couple of sandwiches around noon, and before they make even a bit of headway of lunch, they are possessed by lust again.

They are like teenagers that day. Sherlock has always repressed his libido for most of his life, but for John he has become _insatiable_. John has not gotten off so many times in a day since college.

They cannot keep themselves off each other. John's mouth worships Sherlock's cock for the afternoon, and Sherlocks hands cannot keep off John's chest. His tongue is obsessed with John's throat, and his palms love the backs of John's thighs when he's pushing into him slowly.

John makes the most beautiful faces when he feels the thick flesh pressing against his opening, and sighs in relief when they become completely joined. Their frenzied and impassioned fucking alternates throughout the day between soft and positively violent. It is perfect.

When the day grows dim and slips into evening, Sherlock's heart feels light and his mind is blissfully calm. He has never felt so thoroughly interested in something or someone for so long that is not a case. Is that what love is? He doesn't know. He doesn't voice the thought.

John orders take-away for them, and puts clothes on to fetch it from the door begrudgingly (Sherlock had to remind him that clothes were worth it if it meant his life).

He is stripped instantaneously once he's returned to Sherlock's bedroom, and they eat in bed for the third time that day. Sherlock insists he is not really hungry after all the food they'd shared already, and that all he wants is to devour John's body again; but John laughs, shakes his head, and clumsily scoops noodles into Sherlock's mouth with chopsticks. They are naked, and manage to get food everywhere. It's an utter mess, but a complete delight. Sherlock ends up slurping up a noodle from John's chest.

"Sherlock," John laughs. "That is as un-sexy as it is possible to be."

"I don't care," Sherlock chuckles. "Worth it."

And it really is. Sherlock would not exchange this day for anything except more time. There is never enough time Sherlock decides resignedly as the sun goes down and his bedroom becomes a garden of long, ominous shadows.

He sighs deeply against John's scarred shoulder for the last time and kisses him. John holds his face close, desperate to not let this day end, but Sherlock pries him off.

"After," Sherlock asserts softly, his eyes twinkling. "After Moran is in custody, then we can come right back here. Nothing has to change."

"Are you sure?" John looks concerned, and Sherlock can see the pain dredging back up into John's previously blissful expression.

The consulting detective smiles coolly, his certainty bleeding into John through his next sweet kiss. John feels his confidence in the solidity of his lips.

"I promise."


	4. Blood

_You should know I haven't done any rewrites or edits on this one. Critique it as harshly as you must to help me improve. Seriously. I want so badly to become a better writer and I just feel like I'm getting worse and worse every day. Anyway... enjoy._

_Warning for angst. Like... really bad angst._

* * *

Sherlock watches John dress regretfully. He is glad they are going after Moran at last, but he feels sad to see their perfect day end. John's gorgeous expanse of back muscle disappearing behind his shirt makes Sherlock frown, and John laughs at him for it.

"Sherlock," John teases. "You're the one insisting that we take out Moran."

"Well, yes," Sherlock scoffs. "Of course I am. Would you rather he sit across the street with a bullet fixed on our window for the rest of our lives? If he spots me even for a second, God only know what he..."

"Yes," John interrupts impatiently. "I know, Sherlock. I get it." He smiles, looking sleepy and satisfied all at the same time. Sherlock loves this look on John; he wears it so well. While John buttons his shirt, Sherlock finds himself raking his eyes down the doctor's body. He wants to leave John in this satiated state always.

John quirks a brow at him. "You're still doing it."

"What? What am I doing?"

"Looking at me as though putting on my clothes is the biggest travesty known to man."

"Not to man. Just to me." Sherlock swoops over to circle John like a bird with his hands behind his back, breathing down his neck and grinning shamelessly. "My brave little soldier," he breathes quietly, allowing his exhaled words to ruffle John's sandy hair. The shorter man shudders at this, swallowing hard.

"Sherlock, stop," says John, but his voice shows little resolve. "If you keep this up, you'll never get me out of this room. I'll jump you right where you stand."

Sherlock's mouth twitches. "Again?" He chuckles. "That would be... what? The sixth time today?"

John looks dreamy. "I can't believe this day even happened. It's too perfect." His pupils are dilated again. Sherlock can see his breathing grow shallow, but despite his desires he knows that now is not the time.

Sherlock does give in a little, though. He cannot resist placing a little kiss to John's mouth. "My soldier. My sweet soldier. I never should have left you."

John's expression tensed slightly. "But..."

"I did it for a reason. Yes. I did." He squints, almost accusingly, but there is warmth and gratitude in his near-white eyes. "You are so loyal, John. Such a good friend."

"Well," John says slowly, "you are my best friend, and I am in love with you. It makes sense."

Sherlock's smile is radiant. "Yes," he sighs, then leans in to kiss John again with his round face cupped gently in his wide palms. He is sinking into John for the hundredth time that day- in his mouth; his eyes; his skin. His heart is sighing and buzzing with the softness and the taste of John's mouth. He is barely coherent when John reminds him why they're still wearing clothes.

"Sherlock," he chides gently. "Moran. Remember?" His lips, still touching Sherlock's, are pressed into a pout. Then he sighs. "I don't even understand why Moran is still at it. I mean..." He shakes his head. "Moriarty's been dead for... nearly three years now. What does he think he'll achieve?"

"He is a soldier, John," Sherlock whispers. "Just like you. He was only ever a soldier, and with Moriarty... well, I imagine he doesn't know what else to do but see his mission through."

John looks a little sad. "I get that," he says quietly. His eyes are distant. Sherlock strokes his doctor's face, loving him with the soft touch. He wishes there was a way to let John know how much he missed him. The words 'I missed you' just aren't enough, and even their physical closeness seems to not speak the way he wants. Maybe nothing will. Maybe nothing will ever be good enough for John.

"So..." John blinks up at Sherlock as he stands above him, breathing shallowly. "Are... you going to dress yourself more, or shall I do it for you?"

Sherlock is taken aback. He has forgotten completely about the rest of his clothes. He is only wearing his pants and trousers, while his sleek shirts still hang untouched in his closet. "Er... right." He retrieves a shirt and slips it on. As he does up the first few buttons, John approaches him. He swats Sherlock's hands away and takes up the task for himself. Both men are flushed again within seconds.

"I suppose I just wanted to do it for you, anyway." John chuckles to himself, and Sherlock rolls his eyes despite the slight tug at the corners of his lips which threatens a grin.

"Well, that's certainly not all you've done for me." Sherlock can barely believe he let the words escape. He can barely believe a lot of things about today, but the fact that it's all real- that John Watson wants him, loves him, has touched him, taken him inside, moaned around him, and has cried out his name in ecstasy- gives Sherlock an equally unbelievable strength which trumps any shock he harbors. He is happy, for the first time in his memory; completely and thoroughly happy.

John finishes up Sherlock's buttons, leaving the top two buttons undone. The doctor's fingers graze Sherlock's collarbone, and he licks his lips, giving John the most devious glare he can manage. He looks positively licentious. "When Moran is gone," he breathes, "you're coming back here and remaining unclothed for _days_."

"Sherlock!" John is blushing sheepishly. "Come now. This is getting ridiculous." He swats Sherlock on the shoulder. "Phone Lestrade. Let's get on with this."

With a begrudging sigh, Sherlock holds out his hand expectantly. John smirks, and digs into his pocket. He hands him his phone. Their eyes are locked. Sherlock takes special care to cup John's hand before drawing away to dial Lestrade's number. John is very pink by the time Sherlock flips the mobile open to send the text.

_Baker Street. One hour_.

Barely three seconds have passed when the phone starts to buzz in Sherlock's wide palm. He stares at it. Phone call. He hands the phone off to John, looking disgruntled as ever, as though talking on the phone is beneath him. John sighs and answers.

"Hello?"

There is a pause. Sherlock waits impatiently, crossing his arms and listening closely in case he's able to hear Lestrade's voice.

"Yeah, that was... well, yeah, I know it sounded like... but that's because, well... he's here."

Sherlock can hear the loud "What?" followed by a buzzing sound as Lestrade's voice crackles over the phone's capabilities.

"Yeah, he's alive, Lestrade. I know. He's right here." John lifts the phone from his ear for a second, and Sherlock immediately backs away. "No, he doesn't want to talk. He never did, remember? Yes, of course. Well, yeah. I'll tell him to text. But yeah, we're going to-"

"Oh, don't tell him!" Sherlock hisses. John raises his eyebrows and shrugs, looking incredulous. "He'll want to ruin it and arrest him before we can get him. Moran is mine, and there is no way I'm letting him steal all the glory. Tell him he should just be at Baker Street in an hour and we'll have someone here for him to arrest."

"_I heard that_!" pipes the grumpy voice from the crackling mobile. Sherlock snorts and turns on his heel to get a scarf from his closet.

"Mmhmm," John continues. "I know. Yes, well, it was all for... us, apparently. Yeah. I mean there were gunmen on us, and he... Well, yeah, but he says he had no choice, and... I mean, I suppose he could have... Fuck, Greg, I don't know."

Sherlock glances over at him. The distress on John's expression seems to be growing with every passing second. He puts his face in his free hand and sits on the edge of the bed. Sherlock sighs. He is certain Lestrade is telling John some nonsense about not being able to trust Sherlock anymore. He wonders if John will buy it. _Of course he will_, a terrible voice says in the back of his mind. _The state he's in? After the last three years? Of course he'll still be susceptible to distrust. You heard the things he said today_. Sherlock shakes his head, and listens to John speak again.

"I don't know what you want me to say, Greg. I'm angry, too. I mean... yeah. I'm really angry, but he's... He's Sherlock, y'know?" John looks up, and their eyes meet again. This time, however, there is something pained behind John's intense gaze. It makes Sherlock nervous. "He's just... Fuck, I don't know. Yeah, we're okay. He's fine. I'm... I don't know. Dealing. But yeah, I... I mean, I am still... furious. How could I not be, I mean, you know what he..." John looks so uncomfortable. Tension is obvious in every line of his face and the curve of his back and the position of his arms. Sherlock wants to hold him and lick it all away but that's not a possibility right now. There is a task at hand which is bigger than a bit of anxiety. Emotions could be dealt with later. Right now, Moran is the priority.

"Fine," John sighs. "Alright, just... be here in an hour. You can talk to him then. See you later, Greg. Yeah. Nice to talk to you, mate."

Sherlock sneers, leading the way out of the room cautiously. He has his back pressed to the wall as though someone is about to jump out at him any second. "_Mate_? You and Lestrade been chummy lately?"

John walks faster than he does, because he has nothing to worry about. He is only in danger if Sherlock is spotted. The detective is kicking himself for coming back before Moran was taken out, but it was worth it for the day they'd just spent together. He is grinning to himself, but his expression fades quickly when John speaks again. His tone is serious.

"Actually, yes," he affirms a little stiffly. "He was there for me when you weren't. We bonded a lot over your death. He consoled me. He was there when I almost... I mean. Well. He was there when I admitted I loved you, and he was so understanding. I kind of lost touch with all my other friends, because I couldn't... I mean, I just couldn't..." John looks horrible for a minute. He wrings his hands as he moves into the sitting room, Sherlock following behind, sticking to the walls and out of view of the windows. "I could barely leave the flat, Sherlock," he croaks. Sherlock can tell that admitting this is hard from the crinkle of John's strong brow. "I almost fucking... I mean I really... God, Sherlock, I was near death. Lestrade brought me back from that. I couldn't talk to anyone but him. I was so alone. I felt like... like the way things were before you were ever in my life. Do you even know..."

Sherlock wants so badly to comfort him, but now they're in the open. He can't move except to crawl across the floor to reach the exit. "I have some idea," he says quietly. His voice rumbles in the open air of the sitting room. He has forgotten how sound differs in various parts of the flat. His whole world had temporarily narrowed to the square footage of his bedroom. Now the wide world around him feels vast and bright and slightly changed. He is seeing everything anew, through the eyes of a man drunk on satisfaction and love.

_God, is that what it is?_ Sherlock's heart stutters. _Love? How obscene a thought._

"I don't think you can, Sherlock." John sighs. "I almost... Jesus, I almost killed myself, alright?"

Sherlock sinks. He barely even realizes it until his bottom hits the floorboards and his knees are bent up to his chest. "John," he breathes. "Why?"

"I'm fucking _in love with you_, Sherlock," John reiterates with a wave of his hand. "I couldn't cope! I couldn't _deal_ with it, knowing I was so utterly in love with someone who was dead, and because of that I thought I'd probably never love again, and, well... I just... couldn't." He swallows, and breaks their fixed gaze looking morose. Sherlock's breath catches. "I had a bunch of pills all ready. Lestrade talked me out of it. He had to deal with a lot after you were gone. Getting your name cleared, and handling my issues... God, the man deserves a medal."

"Remind me to thank him," mutters Sherlock from the floor.

A moment passes. It is silent except for John's shaky breathing and Sherlock's heart pounding in his ears. The dim lamplight of the flat with the moonlight pouring through their tall windows gives the doctor an eerie glow. He looks gorgeous. Sherlock licks his lips, watching John move toward the window. The sandy haired man stands like a military man: straight backed, arms behind his back, hands clasped together. He is silhouetted against the window and looks simply regal this way.

"Sherlock," he says, and his voice is so low Sherlock can barely hear him. He is acing away from him after all, his face near the window as he peers out of it. "Are we really in danger?"

"Yes," Sherlock breathes.

"You really want me to be safe?"

"More than anything." Sherlock can't believe he has to answer such a stupid question.

"I wanted so badly to die," says John, and Sherlock feels a lump pulse in his throat as his eyes well up with miserable tears. "It's a hard feeling to shake when it's practically been living under my skin for the last three years. Today has been the first day I've wanted to actually live on. And it's because of you, Sherlock." He turns around, taking steps toward Sherlock's lamely hunched figure. "It's all because of you. I love you. I've never loved anyone or anything like this, and Sherlock, damn it, you... you broke my heart." His features are stiff, as though he's just barely keeping himself from breaking down again. His eyes are wet and sparkling. "That kind of pain isn't something erased in a day."

"I don't expect it to." Sherlock pushes himself to his feet again with some difficulty. His knees are trembling. He has completely forgotten about Moran. "John, I never expected..."

"You do, so," John scoffs, looking hurt. "I know you too well, Sherlock. I know you expect me to be as logical as you in all this, but I just can't."

"Matters of the heart, as I've been told, are often illogical."

John sighs, and looks away, clearly thinking.

Sherlock observes the twitching in the lines of his face, and the subtle wriggling of his thin lips pressing together, and he is suddenly overcome with a need to be kissing him. "John," he rumbles. John looks up at him again. The whole universe goes narrow and quiet. There is nothing around him but John's form staring at him. If only he could feel such clarity all the time. If this isn't love, he supposes, then love can't possibly exist.

"I love you."

John's whole body slackens in shock. His lips part delicately. His eyes widen.

"I love you," Sherlock says again. He is not wavering in his tone, nor does he stutter. He is as confident as he is in any deduction. "Kiss me."

When John does not move after several long seconds, Sherlock cannot wait anymore.

He is desperate. He crosses the room quickly, without thinking.

They meet. Their arms tangle around one another. Sherlock's body feels whole with John in his grasp, and their searching mouths close what little space is left between them with a whine and a sigh from both men. The sighs become moans. Sherlock's fingers are in John's hair. John is weeping against the detective as Sherlock's tongue divides his lips, loving him from the inside.

"I love you, Sherlock," he exhales. "God, I love you. I was so alone. I never told you. I was so alone, and you..."

Sherlock interrupts him with a soft tongue. The warmth of John, the taste of John, the smell of John; it all overwhelms Sherlock until his entire field of existence has become just this. He slides his hands down John's frame, wrapping his arms around John's waist.

For a second, everything is perfect.

All it takes is a second.

A fast whirring noise splits the air. John's muscles tense momentarily, and Sherlock's embrace immediately tightens as though his reflexes knows what has happened before his mind can catch up.

John's lips go limp against his, and Sherlock tastes blood. He pulls away with a gasp. "John?" John's head rolls back, and Sherlock holds it up. He falls to his knees as John's legs gives out from under him, clutching his doctor tightly to him and supporting all his weight as he cradles him on the floor. "John?"

John sputters. The bullet hole in the side of John's neck is small. Sherlock can tell at a glance what type of firearm is the perpetrator, but his mind seems to be churning too slowly to care. John is gasping. There is blood pooling in his mouth at this angle. Sherlock tries to sit him more upright, but the dark fluid just spills over his chin and the flow doesn't stop. Sherlock barely realizes there is blood on his hands and on his shirt. "John," he says again, and his voice sounds distant and cracked. "I love you."

A horrible gurgle falls from John's lips, and the oozing blood bubbles on his tongue. Sherlock feels sick. John's eyes are wide and full of fear. The weakening doctor looks reverent of the figure hunched over him, and that turns Sherlock's stomach even more.

"No, John. No. I love you. I love you. I _love _you. Please. You're going to be okay."

He knows that he is lying, but he says it for John, because John would want him to. As he lie to the man gagging in his arms, he tries to believe it's true.

"I'm phoning Lestrade right now. He'll be here in minutes. You're going to be fine."

A weak hand grasps his wrist gently. His grip quivers Sherlock slips his hand into John's and holds on tightly. It can't end this way. It can't end this soon. Not like this. Not now. Not after everything.

Their fingers entwine. Sherlock swallows hard, his eyes brimming but his features remaining stony for John who is searching his face in desperation. Tears are rolling down the sides of John's sweet lined face. He makes another noise, but Sherlock shushes him. "Stop," he says. "You'll only hurt yourself more." _The bullet has gone clean through your vocal chords, John. You shouldn't talk._ These are things he doesn't say. "Sh, it's okay, John." The hold on his hand is loosening slowly, but Sherlock does not let go. He clutches the warm hand close to his chest while John's other hand finds his collar and grips it tight.

"I love you." Sherlock kisses John hard. Blood is coating his lips and chin, but he does not care. He gathers all the warmth he can from the quivering mouth. He inhales deeply, soaking in the tangy smell of the blood and the natural scent of John hidden under it.

The trembling stops. The grip on his collar loosens, and the arm falls limply to his side.

Sherlock keeps his mouth pressed to John's for a long minute, all logic failing him. His whole system may be shutting down. He wouldn't know. His eyes are shut tight.

A broken wail escapes him, and the tears come hot and fast, printing indented droplets in the blood pattern on John's lifeless cheek. He is crying words he cannot hear. He still has his fingers looped with John's.

When he pulls his mouth from John's, he cannot bring himself to open his eyes again. He keeps his hold on John for a while and breathes deeply, trying to soothe himself into the belief that the warm, heavy body in his arms is well and alive.

Then the rage floods him as a mental dam collapses.

Brain function returns in a flash, and he stands quickly, dropping John's head and hand with a clunk that should make him sick but doesn't, because his mind has become blank. His vision is buzzing and his limbs are quaking. His teeth are gritted. He is vaguely away that a snarl is curling from him, but he feels so distant from his own voice that it is irrelevant. That distant sound slides into a roar and then a bellow. He is crying out, wringing his blood-soaked hands, pacing on legs that feel numb and strong at the same time. Something wild is coursing through him, something painful and violent and human.

He flings out his arms, grabs hold of the coffee table, and flips it. Its contents go flying, strewing across the floor in a crash.

Down comes the bookcase. Something shatters. Sherlock clutches a shard of broken china in his bloodied palm and with a great flourish, he slices the seat of his leather armchair. He drops the glass, scratches at the sleek fabric with long fingers, and the surface creaks beneath his hands but does not break. He pulls away from the chair in a great yowl. He is certain Mrs. Hudson will be wondering what the ruckus is, and will be upstairs in a second, but he does not care.

He suddenly goes still. His dull throb of surprise at this violence is suppressed beneath a mountain of fury, numb shock, and horror.

There is a single concept absorbing him now, cleansing him of all logical thought. It is all that matters to him anymore. _Justice_.

He flings himself through the doorway and pushes passed Mrs. Hudson. On his way out the front door, he hears her scream from somewhere behind him.

* * *

It is done. He sits back, breathing deeply and waiting. He is waiting for the sense of fulfillment he'd expected to come crashing down on him. He is waiting for some kind of revelation; some kind of message from Jim telling him he'd been good. He knew this was what Jim wanted. Suicide was the least of it. It had been about destroying Holmes' heart. Suicide after the ruination of his name had been the perfect method then, but now... Well.

Seb smiles to himself. What could be a better punishment than this? Killing a lover in his arms? If Jim had known about Holmes' relationship with Watson, perhaps he would have taken a different route involving even more heartbreak before Holmes' fall. Seb can't be sure, but he feels victorious. He leans his chair back on its legs and grins, withdrawing a cigarette from his pack and lighting it.

He is exhausted and tense. He has not slept; has not eaten. He has been obsessed with his window and the glow of light from 221b visible across the street. He has been waiting for a glimpse of the man he'd seen the other night, waiting for evidence that it was, in fact, Holmes. All he needed was one glimpse of that face without his disguise. Just one. And the opportunity presented itself in the most glorious manner. He watched Sherlock Holmes dart into view, wrap himself around the old army doctor and kiss him. They looked like animals devouring each other.

For a moment, Seb had seized up. Only for a moment.

He remembered Jim's breath and hands and the taste of his tongue, and his loss took over. He aimed. When Sherlock had moved his hands down and a clear shot seemed possible, Seb wasted no time.

Now, he enjoys the wreckage. He can see the infamous detective's meltdown through the window, and it pleases him. He revels in the silhouette flinging books across the room.

Taking a deep drag on his cigarette, he relaxes. "All for you, Jim, you great bastard." He closes his eyes. He imagines Jim is there, stroking his hair and slinking an elegant hand under his shirt collar to toy with a nipple. Seb's heart gives a heavy twang. He sighs. This is fair, he thinks, as he realizes that he is starting to shake. The universe has been done justice now. Seb lost Jim to Sherlock Holmes, and it is only fitting that Holmes now loses his Watson by his hand. Fuck. This is justified.

Why, then, does he still feel empty? He sucks hard on the cigarette again, inhaling deeply to fill his lungs and subdue the growing space in his heart.

Is this closure? He wonders. A sense of finality is falling over him, but he feels more hollow than ever. "Jim," He sighs. "Why did you fucking leave me? Damn it, Jim. Nothing fucking works anymore. I can't do anything without feeling you."

He feels hands on his shoulders, and sinks into them, completely aware of the fact that they're not really there. "He's going to come to you, y'know," a sing-song voice whispers slyly in his ear. He lets out a puff of smoke. He watches it cloud around his head, fogging up the window.

"I figured," he sighs to the phantom voice. "It's what I would have done."

The imaginary voice laughs. "What? For _me_? Don't be such a big baby, Seb. You're better than that."

Seb laughs quietly, shakes his head, and drags on his cigarette again. The butt glows bright in the musty atmosphere. He gets up lazily, taking his time as he makes his way over to the sofa. He is amazed by how calm he is. No more rage or anything. Just a gaping space in his heart. He flops onto his sofa with little interest. His rifle is still set up by the window, and he gazes at it fondly as an old friend. He gives it a little nod, resigning himself to never shooting again.

This is it. Holmes will be on his tail within minutes. He is certain. He leans back, and waits.

Minutes later, he hears heavy footfalls in the hall outside the flat, and then a slam that can only mean one thing. He smiles.

* * *

The door flies off its hinges with only a few good kicks.

Sherlock takes in his surroundings immediately, absorbing more data than his brain can process at the moment in his abnormal state of mind.

There he is. The bastard. Sitting on his sofa, watching Sherlock's seething form blankly. When Sherlock crosses the room to him, Moran stands languidly, but Sherlock's heavy fists knock him down again within seconds. They scuffle, but Moran is putting up little fight. Sherlock's outrage flares hotter. "You," Sherlock growls, and he's never heard himself sound so dangerous. He barely realizes that he is shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. "You... killed... him. For that... Moran..." He hisses the word as though it is poisonous on his tongue and it burns his lips to say it. "...You will not get out of here alive."

Moran laughs, deep and low. "I expected nothing less of you, Holmes," he says coolly, and something about the way he speaks reminds Sherlock of Moriarty. His collected tone under pressure; the almost teasing mannerism. It drives him up the wall. The sound that leaves his throat is a sort of growl, but it sort of sounds like a gurgle too, and what does it matter anyway? Why should he be concerned about his noises when John lay motionless on the floor of 221b? _His_ John. His John who he had kissed and touched and loved all day. His John who was now...

"You want to die," Sherlock sneers. It is not a question. It is obvious to his trained eye.

Moran does not reply, and Sherlock's fury is starting to grow white hot and blinding.

"You... deserve... to suffer the pain of everyone you've ever killed," Sherlock snarls, his head throbbing and his throat aching as the words spill from him like the blood from John's pretty mouth.

"And you..." croaks Moran, his eyes glaring and dancing in the lamplight. "...Deserved having the heart burned out of you. That is what Jim wanted all this time, really. This is what he wanted. He wanted you to suffer, and now you suffer like I suffer. He would have been happy."

"You?" He seethes. He is nose-to-nose with Moran, holding the colonel steady by his collar. "Why would _you_ be suffering?" Moran says nothing, but his gaze narrows and his eyes grow dark. "Ah," Sherlock rumbles. "You_ loved_ him."

"He was my boss," Moran shouts suddenly. "And yes." He swallows. "I loved him."

"And what became of the man you loved?" Sherlock's tone is sly and cruel. He knows what he is asking, how painful it will be, and he feels excitement rush in his blood. "Tell me."

"He's gone," hisses Moran. "You did something, and I know it. He's dead." His voice never wavers, though his eyes are sparkling wetly. "I can feel it."

A memory flits through Sherlock's mind. John's voice on the mobile just before the jump; the look of shock and surprise on John's face when he saw Sherlock again just yesterday. _God, was that really just yesterday?_ "It makes you feel better to believe that I did something to him," Sherlock replies feverishly. He bares his teeth like a snarling wolf. "Well, I'll tell you only the truth, Moran. Moriarty killed himself." He remembers Molly's assistance, her complaining later about retrieving the body and having to deal with paperwork to change his identity. He remembers how helpful she was, and suddenly thinks how heartbroken she will be to learn that John...

"No." Moran's expression is wild, like a tormented animal. "He wouldn't do that. You didn't know him."

"I knew him better than you did. We knew each other like no one else ever could. He was me, and I was him. And I saw him do it." His eyes flash, suggesting violence. "I was holding his hand when he put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. I felt the vibration of the trigger's release through his fingers. I saw his eyes roll back and the blood explode behind him. I saw the life leave his eyes."

Moran looks a wreck.

"Moriarty knew that with him still alive, there was a chance I could have called you off. He knew that, and he stopped it. He cared more about defeating me than he ever cared about you."

"Stop it!" The blonde assassin looks a right state. "It's a lie! He'd never do that!" He struggles in Sherlock's grip. He is wriggling, making every effort to punch Sherlock flat, but the detective has him pinned. "You didn't know him!"

"I obviously knew him better than you," Sherlock growls. "I knew what made him tick. I knew the way he thought. We were one and the same. How could _you_ ever compare to something like what he and I had?" Sherlock knows he is being cruel, and he loves it. He loves the twisted agony contorting Moran's lined face. He loves the way the hit man is squirming under him, desperate to lash out. He loves that he has the freedom to kill him, and no one could stop him. It's what he deserves.

"Then how could John Watson ever compare, either?" Moran's voice is rasping. His eyes are unfocused. "He was like me. He was simply_ ordinary_. It could never have lasted."

Sherlock lets out a howl like an offended beast. "Don't you dare speak that name," he says, and he is surprised to find his voice extraordinarily low and steady. In fact, his voice is almost a whisper. "John is nothing like you. You know nothing of John."

"I know that you loved him, like I loved Jim, and that this is fucking_ justice_."

Sherlock's hands trail to Moran's neck, and Sebastian does nothing to stop it. The coward. "No," hisses Sherlock, eyes throbbing, pulse contracting. "_This is_." His grip tightens. Sherlock's thumbs are pressing into the frail assassin's throat, and he is making no attempt to stop the crushing hands at his windpipe. Power is surging through Sherlock's veins, partnered with uninhibited rage like he's never imagined possible. This feels good, he thinks, and he doesn't even care how easy it is. He doesn't even care that Sebastian Moran wants to die, is waiting to die, is resigning to Sherlock's quaking palms as though they were his salvation.

The strength is leaving Moran. Sherlock wants to snap the neck in his grasp, but he refrains. He prefers to feel the life ooze away slowly. He re-envisions John in his arms, gasping wordless noises at him, unable to grasp words or confirm his love for the last time. The tragedy of it is pulsing in Sherlock's deadly arms, loss pumping like a drug in his muscles and fueling every action. He likes the sensation of Moran's throat collapsing in on itself beneath his strong thumbs, likes watching the color drain slowly. He grins as the hit man's eyes go red and roll back into his pallid head, his tongue beginning to loll grotesquely.

The crash of footsteps behind him barely registers. Sherlock's entire world has become Sebastian Moran's bruising throat, and the feel of the life flickering out beneath his hands.

Then suddenly he feels as though he is floating somewhere outside himself, watching the scene from a place where maybe John is living now. He is disconnected; thoughtless; weightless. Hands are tugging his physical form backward. He is vaguely aware of the fact that his long hands are slipping off the slender neck, that his arms are straining behind him now, and cold metal is slapping onto his wrists.

"Sherlock," a familiar and comforting voice is saying. "Sherlock, what the hell do you think you're doing, mate? You know I haven't a choice but to arrest you for that."

His lips feel numb, but he speaks as best he can through his dry mouth. "He... killed... John..." His voice is steady and unfeeling. His eyes are dull. His cheeks are wet with tears, but there is no emotion in his expression. He watches dimly, through a haze, a swarm of men crouching by Moran's limp body. They are trying to bring him back. He wants to say something, to tell them to stop, but his logic told him: it is their duty to save a failing life. Why couldn't they have been there in 221b? Why could they have pulled Sherlock away from a lifeless figure when it was really necessary? When it was a precious life at stake? A precious life without whose fire the world will never be as warm or good or worthwhile.

Lestrade's hand is on his shoulder. Another hand is trying to wipe the blood off his face, but he shrugs disdainfully away from the towel, staring at Moran in horror. There are prints of Sherlock's hands around his neck, lined in John's blood. His enraged fingers curl at the sight, itching to finish the job, to destroy the man whose heart is now restarting under helping hands. His expression is contorted. He looks like a twisted version of himself.

"I know. I'm sorry," says Lestrade sadly. "I've seen him. I mean... Mrs. Hudson called us sooner than you wanted us. She said... and, well, I saw..."

"They're at the flat, now?" Sherlock whips his head around, everything coming down around him as the realization hits him. They're taking John away. No.

Lestrade understands exactly what he means by this. He nods. "I can't uncuff you, Sherlock," he says remorsefully. His eyes are red, as though he is trying particularly hard not to cry. "I'm sorry. You know I can't. Not after..."

Sherlock pushes past the crowd of cops with his hands still forced behind him. Lestrade is calling after him, but he does not listen. He does not care. He sees through blurry tunnel vision- down the hall, down the stairs, out the door, across the street. The world is colored a hazy grey and it's all gone soft around the edges. 221 looks foreign, somehow, as he approaches it. A swarm of policemen nearly stop him, but Sherlock is a force of nature, like thunder crashing through anyone in his way. Paramedics are backing through the door before he can go through it. He stands back for them. There is a stretcher following them, and Sherlock watches it cross the threshold feeling both weightless and made of iron all at once.

"No," she whispers. "No!" Louder this time. Nearly shouting. "No! No! Move, you imbiciles!"

Mrs. Hudson is sobbing in the doorway. The stretcher is by the gate. Sherlock is shooing its keepers away with wild jerks of his head, unable to move his arms but straining at the cuffs all the same.

"Get away." And this time, he sounds shockingly level-headed. The world has slowed, somehow. He stills, gazing down at John's shell on the stretcher with icy red eyes. His lover's eyes are still open. The stony lifeless expression is a ghost of shock and devastation. He wants to touch John's cheek, to wipe away some of the blood at the corner of John's mouth, but what good would that do, even if his hands weren't clapped behind him? John is not John anymore. He is just a body.

"I'm sorry," he rasps, and he's never been so genuine in his life.

Something awful and powerful is tugging on the back of his throat, making him want to choke and cry, but nothing is happening. His head is spinning. He goes momentarily blind, and his legs completely give out. Sherlock is on his knees, and the stretcher is being wheeled away from him before he can say a word or stop them. He watches John's limp hand disappear in the van, and he cannot speak. He cannot move. He is useless. A shell like John, but with a beating heart that he can feel in every vein, every inch of his skin.

A warm hand is on his shoulder. "Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock merely blinks. She squeezes his arm, bending beside him to hug him close. He watches the van drive away while she sniffles into the sleeve of his stained shirt. "Why, Sherlock? Why did this happen? I can't believe it. I just can't!"

Sherlock purses his lips, and gives a twitch of his head. He's not really sure if that's a response, or an involuntary tick. He doesn't care. He doesn't care, either, when another hand finds his shoulder. He can tell by the weight of it that it's Lestrade, and what that implies is what he does care about.

"Moran?" He looks up at the Detective Inspector with wide, glossy eyes. A shiver passes over Lestrade's face as though it hurts to look at Sherlock. He glances over his shoulder, and Sherlock follows his gaze.

Sebastian Moran is being hauled into a police vehicle, manhandled by two burly cops who don't even know the kind of monster in their grip. There is a shadow of something on Moran's face, and Sherlock could swear it is something like... disappointment. The hunched assassin locks tired eyes with Sherlock, and the detective feels the storm of rage rise in his bloodstream again. He begins to shake uncontrollably. That distant growling may be him, but he isn't even sure. It must be, though, because Lestrade says "Easy, Sherlock, easy. I know what he did, but I promise I'll do everything I can to make his life uncomfortable. John was my friend, too."

Sherlock swallows. He cannot voice what his brain is screaming in electric tendrils stringing through his nervous system. _He is more than a friend to me. I love him. I need him. And it's my fault he's dead_. Instead, he pushes himself to his feet with all the strength he has, and watches the cop car drive off with regret and sorrow pounding in his head. He's never felt so many things at once. Emotions are something he represses with deft talent, but this evening all he's done is feel; this evening, he's been running on feeling and nothing else. He is drained by it. Totally spent. Is this what ordinary people go through every day? Feeling so much all the damn time? It's hateful. He sighs, and turns to stare at the door to 221. He blinks back tears. "Lestrade," he grunts, and finds his throat to be dry and sore. "Are you going to un-cuff me now?"

Lestrade glances around at the street. "Yeah," he says under his breath. "It's my arse on the line for not taking you into custody after what we all just saw you try up there, but yeah. God, I can't believe I'm letting you go after everything you pulled three years ago. After faking your death! After what I went through to get your name cleared, and everything! Jesus, Sherlock. Remember I'm doing this because I'm your friend."

"Trust me," Sherlock rumbles. "I know. Friends are..." He is tongue tied. When the pressure on his wrists is relieved, he groans and rolls his shoulders forward to rub the sore place where the metal bit into him. He nods solemnly, hoping this will excuse him from finishing his sentence. Lestrade seems to understand.

"Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson coos. "You should stay in my flat tonight. I don't want you going up there. It's a mess." Sherlock isn't sure if she's talking about the destruction he'd caused, or the pool of blood where John had fallen. For a second, Sherlock gags at the thought, but he chokes it back. He's already managing to sink back into his usual suppression rather well. He is impressed. Mycroft would commend him. Oh god, Mycroft. What will he say? _This is why it is dangerous to fall in love, Sherlock. I thought you knew that. I am sorry you had to suffer what it is to have a heart and experience loss. I hoped you'd never have to_. Sherlock scoffs silently at this imagined reaction. He feels sorry for so many reasons now. Sorry he gave in to his heart, and sorry that doing so got John killed. Being in love made him thoughtless, and in a rare fleeting moment of thoughtlessness, right when it counted, Sherlock destroyed everything. He's never hated anything or anyone as much as he currently hates himself. He wants to be with John again; to be lying in John's arms like he was just this morning. He wants to die to make that happen.

Shit. What would John say to a thought like that? Bit not good, probably.

But what did that matter? What did John want matter anymore? He can't want anything every again. He can't care about Sherlock's morality or well-being anymore. He's gone.

He sighs, and straightens suddenly, clapping his heels together and lifting his head. He looks military. "Thank you for the offer, Mrs. Hudson, but I think I'll just stay out tonight."

"Well I'll leave a key under the mat if you want to pop in late, alright? I just don't want you up there. It's too gruesome."

"Yes. Right, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you."

At that, Sherlock turns on the spot, and whisks down the street. The night is a bit chilly. He hasn't even realized this whole time he's been without his coat. Damn. His exit would have been so much more dramatic with that wide coat billowing behind him. Damn. He imagines John sniggering and pointing out his self-absorption, but fuck it. Fuck John. He's irrelevant now. He's gone. Gone. Really...

Fuck. Sherlock throws himself around the corner and sinks to the pavement in seconds. He is hyperventilating when he realizes the mobile is already in his hand. He punches in a number he hasn't used in a long time, thanks to John, and sends a hurried text. _I need some._ _Tell me where, and I will come to you. SH_

* * *

_And yes, there will be one more chapter after this. But just the one. Maybe I'll do a sequel one day, but I can't promise anything. Hope you enjoyed (or not. whatever)!_


	5. Veins, Epilogue

_Warning: angst, angst, and a lot more angst._

* * *

The bottle is screwed shut, resting on the end table by the sofa. Sherlock is sprawled across the cushions, his face slack and his eyes dim. His veins have always been prominent, so tourniquets were never really an issue for him, and the sting of the needle is now pleasant to him. He's grown used to it.

Before John, he only dipped into the bottle during the periods of disquieting tedium; after John, the bottle and needle became his only friends. He turns to them daily, but even the faint rush in his veins and the sweet jump start to his brain are not quite enough anymore. He is bored all the time. He still takes on cases, but rarely leaves the sofa to solve a single one, and he hasn't slept in his bed since that fateful day. In fact, he's fairly certain the sheets in there are still rumpled the way he and John had left them.

He has resumed his usual schedule of barely eating or sleeping, and has taken up all his old habits. His kitchen experiments are flourishing, he is proud to say, and his success rate with cases is still high (though never as high as it was when he had John). The few changes to his routine are insignificant in his own mind, but the same clearly does not hold true for his brother, who visits him every week, much to Sherlock's distaste.

Barely ten minutes after Sherlock has stuffed the needle and bottle into its protective case, he hears his brother's familiar footsteps on the landing. "Back _again_, Mycroft?" he growls before the man even makes it through the door.

Mycroft's posture is as flawless as ever, and his expression is most disdainful. He raises his eyebrows at his younger brother and sighs. "Always. But at this rate, Sherlock, I'm almost on the verge of giving up on you."

"Please do," Sherlock snaps. "It would make for such a nice change."

"If I don't see you're fed and unharmed, who will?"

"None of your concern."

"I'm not getting into this with you again," Mycroft says shortly. He moves swiftly through the flat, charging through the mess of the kitchen to check the inside of Sherlock's fridge. He sighs. "Empty again, Sherlock, aside from the toe. Miss Hooper, I presume?"

"She brought that to me, yes." Sherlock leans his head back, trying to pretend the pompous bastard is not in 221b and that he is, in fact, alone with his ghosts again. He flexes his arm, feeling the tender spot at the crook of his elbow. He is experiencing the gloriously stimulating effects of the drug in his system. A lazy smile trails across his face without his notice. He is acutely aware of everything, and Mycroft's footsteps are elephantine. He glares up at his brother, who is fixing him with a piercing and accusatory stare.

"What?"

"High again, I see."

Sherlock snorts. "Going to have me taken in again like last time?"

"It's been two months of this and I haven't yet, so don't push it. I'm trying to take care of you."

"One month, three weeks, five days, and..." He checks his watch. "...Twelve hours."

Mycroft's dramatic sigh is both condescending and a little pitying. "I don't want to see you kill yourself, Sherlock," he says, and his voice is surprisingly quiet. "I almost saw it happen before, but I stopped it then, and I can stop it now. I'd just like to see you make the right choices on your own."

"It's my body," Sherlock hisses. The intense bags under his eyes are a stark violet against the pallid complexion of his face, which hasn't seen the light of day in weeks. He looks truly gaunt. "I'll enjoy it as I please. I am not yours to control, Mycroft."

"No," Mycroft agrees sourly. "But I don't need to control you directly, do I?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. His body is thrumming pleasantly, now. "Yes, brother, I know you've got a vast number of lapdogs at your disposal. Go play with one of them and leave me alone."

"I mean," Mycroft bites, "that I can use any number of ploys to see you're taken care of. I've tried the simpler methods already..."

"I don't believe employing Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade to spy on me is really a method. They are dully caring already, and needed no persuasion. How exactly did you think they'd be able to help?"

"Well, the Inspector has managed a few meals on you, hasn't he?"

Sherlock sniffs pointedly.

"But that's not the point, Sherlock. If I want you clean, I can have it be done. If I want you locked away, I can make it so. If I want you nourished, I can have you captured and force-fed. Don't think I won't."

"Stay out of my life, Mycroft. You're already nourished enough for the both of us."

"I _am _staying out of your life, Sherlock," he snarls, ignoring the latter comment. "But I don't have to. I could intrude so much more, but there's a reason I'm not." Their eyes meet, and the air between them seems to shiver from the intensity of the two great minds. "You're _family_. I'm _trustin_g you. I'm telling you all this so you'll take care of your_self_. I can't force anything on you after what you've lost. Even_ I _wouldn't be that cruel. But you _are_ going to kill yourself if you keep up this path you're on."

"So be it."

There is a sharp exhale from Mycroft. He twiddles his umbrella between his fingers, letting it twirl on a spot on the floor, mere feet from the spot where John's blood had needed to be bleached out of the wood by the police before he was let back into the flat. Sherlock swallows, wallowing in the memory.

Silence stretches between them for a long moment, then Mycroft speaks again. "How are your cases?"

"Fine," he shrugs.

"Still only taking walk-ins?"

"Everything's boring," Sherlock says with a dismissive wave of his hand. "What's the point in going out for anything less than something outstanding?"

"I could give you outstanding if you wanted."

Sherlock pauses, thinking. His lips are pressed tightly into a thin line. "I don't need your charity."

"I'm pretty sure you'll be interested in this one."

The consulting detective leans his head back, nestling into the sofa warmly and closing his eyes against the sight of his brother's looming figure. "Doubtful," he sighs, sinking into the sweet buzzing of his nervous system. The prick of exhaustion nagging at his eyelids is finally starting to ebb away as the opiate floods him thoroughly. He groans and flexes his fist.

Mycroft makes a noise of disgust. "God, look at yourself," he spits. "It's shameful." He takes a deep breath. "I thought you'd at least be interested in knowing that Moran's trial is coming up."

"I heard."

"And?"

"Lestrade isn't revealing any details. He's deliberately not telling me where it's being held or any everything. Very clever of him." Sherlock looks downright miserable. The pout on his face is comparable to a toddler.

"What if I could tell you that?"

Sherlock's eyes snap open. Mycroft grins.

"Yes, I thought that might pique your interest."

For the first time in the last three months, three weeks, five days, and twelve hours, Sherlock feels a spark in him. It glows dully at first, but he can feel it pulsing, waiting, eager. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, more aware of the feel of his trousers than he should be, thanks to his friend the stimulant. He presses his fingertips together and narrows his pinprick eyes. Mycroft looks devious. "Tell me."

Mycroft flops a a single manilla envelope into Sherlock's lap, and exits silently, a mix of dread and victory swimming in his head. He pauses just outside the door, then turns back. "I wish you never learned to love," he says quietly. Mycroft didn't even realize he meant it until the words were out of his mouth.

"It is a chemical defect of the losing side," Sherlock agrees, speaking as though from a textbook. He barely sounds like himself anymore, though his voice still holds the same deep tremor as always. "I've proved that theory right, in the worst way." He blinks slowly. "It was a mistake."

Mycroft leaves. Sherlock is alone again- alone with his bubbling need for justice, and a single envelope trembling in his emaciated hands.

* * *

Sherlock is dressed- an unusual feat for him since John's murder. He looks sharp in a suit this morning, and he feels like himself again: purposeful, and determined. With his mind wrapped around his goal like a python 'round its prey, he feels something like the hawk-eyed detective he used to be. He smirks to himself in the mirror, and for a second he actually sees that man again, the man he was when John had been taking care of him. It gives him the strength to ignore the itching skin at his arm, the skin begging to be broken, for another hit to push the memories back.

He's really outdone himself over the last few months. He'd never admit it to another soul, but Mycroft was right about one thing: Sherlock has actually driven himself into addiction this time around. Now his eyes are burning and his veins are crawling, shuddering under his flesh and screaming for the crystalline vision that only cocaine could bring.

Today, however, he stays sober. He does it for John, who'd always held him back from turning to the needle during times of crisis, and never subtly (for all his best efforts). For his doctor, Sherlock is staving off. He needs to be at his best, his most competent today.

He would like, he thinks with a bitter snort of laughter, to be as present as possible if he is going to die today. He has few expectations of survival on today's mission, and every time he considers the odds, he realizes that he cares a little bit less. Fulfilling his plans will be justice, and dying in the process would be justice, too. Not quite what Mycroft had intended (in fact, quite the opposite), but he doesn't care. It was the simplest decision he's ever made, for the universe demands it of him. He can feel it in his bones. He is as much to blame as Moran for John's death, and he cannot stand that a second longer. He's stooped low- he's become this rage fueled, murderous drug addict, and he is as bad as any common criminal. He is no use this way. He is a waste of space, and his crippling boredom has reached its boiling point, stirred by paralyzing guilt. His brilliant mind feels fried by it all. He barely deserve the air he breathes anymore.

Now, there were at least eleven ways Sherlock could have chosen to go about this, but each one seems like more effort than its worth. No matter what, Sherlock will probably get killed. A part of him is happy with that, egging him on, telling him to take the simplest path, to go the route any brainless murderer would take, a sure fire way to die.

It will be one last act that to make John proud. "Amazing, fantastic, brilliant," he hears distantly. It will be one last act to put things a little bit right, though of course it could never be fully righted without John in the world.

Sherlock frowns. He needs his wits. He smoothes out his blazer with a confident sweep of his large hands, and sighs. He is ready. He feels to make sure that John's old gun is tucked safely away, and leaves the flat, kissing an unawares Mrs. Hudson on the cheek as he goes.

The courthouse is deceptively quiet from the outside. Sherlock watches its heavy doors from across the street with his arms crossed and his face set. There are no reporters outside, a sign of Lestrade's success in his attempt to keep the case a quiet one. Sherlock is glad about this. He does not care for reporters since his downfall in the eyes of the press over three years ago. A few people file out of the building shortly after Sherlock's arrival, and he deduces from their tired eyes and the fact that they aren't leaving that this is a short recess. A few sit on the steps of the building and unwrap pre-packed sandwiches. A couple are smoking cigarettes. One man sits, not eating, not speaking, just looking downcast at his knees. Lestrade. Sherlock crosses the street with a sigh, and when Lestrade spots him, he looks distraught and stands quickly to greet him.

"Sherlock, no," he groans. "You shouldn't be here. I mean, it's nice to see you out and about, but..."

"Did you honestly think you could keep _me _away?"

Lestrade's face contorts. His mouth is tight, and his brow furrowed. "I thought I could try." He shrugs. "I guess it's useless to keep anything from you."

Sherlock gives a stiff breath of laughter. "Obviously."

"Jesus, Sherlock." Lestrade is shaking his head. "You look horrible."

"So I've been told," Sherlock scoffs. He is quite aware how he looks, thinned out and wan with dark circles beneath his dull, colorless eyes.

Lestrade just nods uncomfortably. They fall into silence, and Sherlock can tell from his body language and the intensity in his eyes that Lestrade is thinking about John. How could he not be, anyway? He's spent the last two months looking over case details of John's murder so it would, of course, be living in the foreground of his mind. How terrible for him.

"It might please you to know, Sherlock," says the Detective Inspector, "that the case is really open and shut. It's taken so long only because of all the other cases Moran turned out to be linked to."

Sherlock's lips twitched. "I know." He glares at the doors, a fire building in his stomach. He has said his goodbyes already to Mrs. Hudson and Molly Hooper, but without revealing the true nature of his mission. None of them know he will probably die, and neither does Lestrade. Lestrade may even be there when it happens. Sherlock feels a small pang in his stomach at the thought of leaving them, of giving them a second loss to grieve in just two month.

It would, however, be worth it. Nothing is more important than justice. Nothing is more important than John.

"Right... so," Lestrade asks hesitantly, "why are you here, then, if you already know the outcome of the trial? You know you can't go in there. You know I won't let you."

Sherlock says nothing. He just glares. His eyes are sparkling, and his skin looks particularly translucent as the daylight beats down on him for the first time in so long. Lestrade sighs. "Just... stay out of there, okay?" He pauses, looking concerned. Then he puts a hand on Sherlock's shoulder awkwardly. Sherlock acknowledges this comforting touch with a single nod. "Look, it's good to see you out of doors, Sherlock. I've got to get back, but... be okay, yeah?"

Sherlock allows a grunt in response. He does not want to tell Lestrade that he will not be okay; that he will never be okay; that he will only be okay when he is with John again; that Lestrade will most likely never see him alive again after the day is over. He watches Lestrade go with only a tiny stab of regret.

No feeling of remorse for his other friends could even come close to the emptiness growing in his heart where John used to lie. Nothing was even comparable. John had been everything to him. John had made the noise in Sherlock's overactive mind go still with just a kiss, a touch, with his arms around him.

He blinks, swallowing down an ache in his throat as Lestrade retreats back into the courthouse. Before the other attendees follow, Sherlock stops one by the arm and requests a smoke. The man is generous, and Sherlock accepts the offer of a light, as well.

A deep inhale makes Sherlock light-headed. He's malnourished and overtired. When the courthouse front is bare once more, Sherlock takes a seat on the steps, which are cold beneath him, and hard on his pelvis.

He savors the cigarette, contemplating the heavy weapon in his coat. He could kill Moran in any number of methods, but this way is fitting. This is sentiment, and at this point Sherlock has no care for how weak it makes him, for how dangerous it is. The end is in sight, so what does it matter? The last relic of John, who had so few personal items of his own, is being put to proper use. He feels the gun at his breast with splayed fingers, holding in a deep breath of tobacco and feeling it throb in his lungs. John had saved his life with this gun more than once. The first night they met, John had killed a man for him. Now, on Sherlock's last day, it was right that he should kill a man for John. The world would turn properly again.

The tiny part of Sherlock that still holds any semblance of his former self is shaking its head. "Stupid," it is saying. "You've become overly sentimental. Weak. Illogical. Useless. This is why people who come out on top never fall in love. Love would defeat them. It is a terrible chemical failure that should have been avoided at all costs. I can't believe you, of all people, fell into such a dreaded trap."

Sherlock shuts his eyes tight. That's not him anymore. He had been functioning well enough before Mycroft had tried to help him by giving him this time and place, and now? He knew Mycroft had meant well, had meant to give him motivation to rouse his genius again and make him cold as ever, but how long had that lasted? Only for that small stretch of time. Now, sitting on these steps with his head in his hands, smoke billowing from his nostrils and slightly parted lips, he is a phantom; a whisper of a man, with one foot out the door.

He rolls the cigarette between his long fingers, watching the thin body slide between his knuckles while the butt sizzles down. He puts it to his lips again and drags deeply. God, he missed this. He experiences a sharp pain in his heart at the feel of the thing between his lips. He remembers John's mouth, suddenly, as though their last kiss had only been this morning. He remembers it all the time, in fact.

Sometimes when he's taken enough into his veins, he actually forgets that John is gone. He talks to him, wonders when he'll get to kiss him again, searches for him in the flat with waiting arms. But now, sobriety makes him ache. He can feel John's absence on every inch of his body. He can't believe John suffered this for three years, this knowledge that he was dead, and this horrible feeling of loss. John is- was- clearly a stronger man than he. Sherlock chokes back a sob. His misery is provoking a brutally strong pull on his heat that he refuses to give in to. He holds it in, saving that pain for the moment it will count.

He waits.

He waits because it is the last thing he'll ever do, because waiting is all he has left: waiting futilely for John to come home; waiting for Moran to die.

He waits because this waiting could never compare to the waiting he would otherwise endure after today, waiting to die in the far off future.

Breathing is boring. _Everything_ is boring. Cases hold so little interest, now. Every time he solves one, just as that rush of self importance strikes him, he turns expectantly to hear John's compliments, but they never come. Every time, the disappointment far outweighs any glee he felt a second earlier, and so the work has ceased to matter. If the work doesn't matter, then nothing does.

So he waits: waits for it all to end; waits so he can kill; waits so he can die sooner rather than later.

Time slides by in millimeters. Sherlock's blood is drumming in his ears with every passing second and he revels in every moment of this waiting, trying to understand his body as it sits, the way it functions from the inside out, the way every part of him feels as skin and tissue and bone. He has never been so aware of his breathing before.

Half an hour- or was it half the day?- after flicking the tiny butt of the cigarette to the ground, the doors behind him open. He stands suddenly and moves down the steps to stand on the pavement and let strangers pass him. They file past, and Sherlock observes each of them with a particularly sharp eye. His talent is frantic from disuse, and he breathes a sigh of relief with every involuntary deduction that springs to light just from these quick glances. It's like a switch has been flipped in his mind, and _maybe_- he thinks for a second- just _maybe_ he can still go about his life the way it was; maybe he can actually go back to solving crimes with Lestrade's allowance, and survive without a friend in the world because _god_ it feels so good to know things other people don't, and maybe this is still worth it... and then the crowd passed, and Sherlock is left standing there on frozen limbs.

The next wave of people issue out, and Sherlock swings his head around, and there's Lestrade again. The Inspector catches sight of him and rolls his eyes. "You can't still be here," he says, trying to wave Sherlock away. "Please, just go. Don't make me have you arrested, Sherlock."

But that's when he sees him. The man with the mop of dirty blonde hair and sunken eyes, the man with icy eyes to match Sherlock's, and a permanent frown.

All the doubt that had flooded him a second ago is gone in seconds, burnt out by the sudden flame of rage and need. All he's been suppressing is flooding out of him, full force. His flesh is aching, his eyes are burning, and he needs to be on him, needs to see the light go out of the bastard who removed his only friend from the world. He pushes past Lestrade, and moves straight toward the policemen walking Moran towards the parked vehicle. They look wary, but the one keeping Moran's cuffed hands behind him is still hurrying him forward.

"Damn it, Sherlock!" Lestrade is calling, and Sherlock can tell his gun is out. Sherlock is not stupid enough to retrieve John's gun just yet, though, for it would be a true travesty to be shot down before he could take out Moran. "Stop there, Sherlock! I mean it!" Sherlock can hear him swearing behind him, furious and hesitant. Some other cops have stepped in front of Sherlock, but he is a brick wall on the move, and no one can stand in his path. Several guns have been drawn, and- heart thudding, teeth chattering, fingers steady- Sherlock lunges with a bellowing roar.

Moran does not look surprised as he's tackled to the ground, and he does not even look angry. He looks impassive, and almost grateful. "Finally. Thank you," he croaks, and it is so reminiscent of Moriarty that Sherlock's fury multiplies tenfold.

Sherlock snarls, and out comes the gun.

He hears shouting from behind him, and knows they're willing to shoot. It's now or never, and Moran is daring him with his cold eyes. "Do it."

The nose of the weapon is at Moran's neck so fast, no one has time to react before it happens.

Blood sprays across the pavement, and the street is suddenly alight with gunfire.

Sherlock feels the pain in three different places, webbing outward to burn in every cell throughout his body. He grimaces, and falls forward onto the scattered throat of the dead assassin beneath him. All he can see is Moran's serene expression, and the color red. Red everywhere. Some of it's his, dripping into the puddle of Moran. The sensation of the bullets in him are searing into total agony and he shakes violently, writhing, coughing, tasting his own coppery fluid pooling in his mouth. He can feel a bullet in the top of his spine, another in his side, and another by his ribcage. His vision's gone blurry. All he sees is rippling crimson.

Suddenly it fades into euphoria. There are hands on him, pulling him off the body to check his pulse. He can hear Lestrade above him cursing in a strained voice, choking back tears, feel the Inspector fumbling for his limp wrist, but he cannot see him. His vision's gone black. His lips have slipped into a placid smile, and _god, everything's really going to be alright, isn't it? Yes. Yes, it's fine, now. John has been avenged at last, and oh- John_, he thinks with all he's got left. _Yes. John_.

John, with that sweet round face, the sandy hair, the premature lines on his forehead from the stress of Sherlock's lifestyle, the soft skin of his chest, the damaged spot of his battle wound, the taut muscle of his stomach and buttocks, the gentle pressure of his lips- wet, warm, loving- and the tenderness of John's sigh against his own neck, _yes_. John. He mistakes the hands lifting him for John's, and tries to say his name, but his throat has closed up. He coughs, desperate to call out to him. "John," he manages. "_John._"

_John_. His heart bleeds the name. _John_. _John_.

Until his last heartbeat.

* * *

**Epilogue**

The steps up to Mycroft's door are actually marble. Greg marvels at them every time. _Marble. Jesus._

He can barely feel his body as he moves his fist up, poising over the door to knock. Everything is so surreal. For a minute, he considers turning around right now and not going through with this visit, just leaving without Mycroft ever knowing he was here.

But to assume one could not have a Holmes notice something would be naive. He should know better. The door opens just as he turns his back on it.

"Ah. Inspector."

Greg swings around to look Mycroft in the face. His smile is smug for a second, but upon catching sight of Greg's face, he becomes crestfallen. He looks as though someone has just placed a bad smell under his nose, and proceeds into the hallway with an expectant gesture to Greg that plainly indicates he should follow. Greg does as he is told. He'd been in Mycroft's manor a few times before, but never for anything so grim. He has been summoned many times under the pretense of looking after Sherlock, and there were also multiple times after Sherlock's overdose so many years ago for some morose conversation and the occasional dinner. Since, they have been on mildly friendly terms; as friendly as one can be with a man like Mycroft Holmes. But today, a gloomy air hangs tangibly around Greg, and he doesn't want to open his mouth for fear of the finality his words bring. Mycroft can tell. He can always tell.

They step into the enormous sitting room on the first floor, high ceilinged and stocked with plush, ornate armchairs. Greg sits without being offered. He is so tired. He hasn't slept in two days, and can't imagine sleeping tonight, not after this morning, not after...

"I take it something has happened to my brother, Inspector? You wouldn't be here otherwise."

"Was it you?" Greg bursts suddenly. He cannot stop himself. His eyes are brimming, but his face is remarkably stoic. He has trained himself so well. Mycroft's brow furrows, but his eyes twinkle knowingly. "Was it you, who... who told him where the trial would be?"

Mycroft's expression is somber. "It was."

"What good could you possibly expect to come of that? Jesus, Mycroft, I mean..."

The Holmes brother sinks to his sofa, and he looks contemplative, bordering on stricken. In this state, something about his eyes and nose are identical to Sherlock, and Greg cannot look at him. He swallows, and glances down at his knees.

"My brother is dead, isn't he?"

The silence following that sentence throbs in Greg's ears. He barely even needs to nod, but does so out of respect. "How could you do that to him?"

"I thought he was stronger than that," Mycroft says tensely. "I thought it would give him something to focus on. I didn't think..."

"You underestimated his love for John, _that's_ what you did." Greg finds his tone much more accusatory and bitter than he'd meant it to be.

Mycroft looks devastated. "Yes."

"Never underestimate love, Mycroft. Your stupidity and your coldhearted inability to understand real human emotion is what got your brother killed, damn it. It didn't occur to you what that sort of mission could do to someone grieving, because you'll never know love like that, Mycroft. It's your fault."

Mycroft glares, successfully managing to look menacing despite the wetness of his eyes. "Do you remember who you're speaking to?"

"I do," Greg sneers, "and I don't care! You're nothing right now except a brother. A person who's just lost family. We're both feeling that loss, Mycroft, so don't act all superior. This is the kind of feeling people can feel together, to not feel so alone."

"Alone protects me."

Greg snorts. The older Holmes sounds just like Sherlock. "Why? Because love makes a person weak?"

"You saw what it's done to my brother and the good doctor."

Something horrible drops in Greg's stomach. He feels sick with loss. "Love didn't do that," he pleads. "Love made them _strong_. Sebastian Moran killed them, not love. They didn't have nearly the time they deserved to prove how strong their love could make them, and then they..." He swallows, feeling stupider with every word he speaks. "Jesus, I don't know why I'm even trying to explain this to you." He stands quickly. "I came here in person because I thought it would be nice, that I could be of some comfort, that it would be good for us both to see a familiar face, now that..." He shakes his head. "This is stupid. I'll just... go."

Mycroft does not tell him not to go, nor does he stop him on his way out the door, but a deep sigh from behind him does make Greg pause a moment in his quick escape. He turns to look at the government man, whose deeply solemn face appears to glow in the lamplight. He looks oddly handsome from this angle. "Thank you for your kindness, Gregory." Greg feels a flutter in his heart, something warm, like having his friend back for just a second. "I know you were a wonderful friend to Sherlock, and I'm sorry you had to see his downfall." For a second, Greg wants to ask how he knows that he was there to see Sherlock get shot, but then he remembers that this is a Holmes he is talking to. "Thank you for being with him at his last, and thank you for your visit. Please, feel free to stop by again at any time." Mycroft raises his eyebrows and stares Greg dead in the eye. "And believe me, Inspector, I do not offer such a thing lightly.

"I imagine you wouldn't. Thanks, Mycroft. I appreciate the offer." A beat passes between them, and Greg nods a little awkwardly. "See you around, then."

He leaves, and behind him he can just faintly make out Mycroft's breathy farewell.

From out in the hall, Greg swears he can hear the quietest of sobs waft toward him from the lavish sitting room.

He pauses with his hand on the doorknob, his heart breaking all over again as he spots the blood on his sleeve: the blood of a good man both bettered and destroyed by love.

* * *

_My headcanon: Gregory Lestrade is the biggest Johnlock shipper there ever was. __Anyway, I'm really sorry for this angst fic I've given you all. __God, I need something seriously happy after this. Jesus fucking christ. I'm so sorry I posted this story to begin with._ But on the bright side... what's that? _What's that I see glimmering in the distance? __Is that an angsty Mystrade sequel I see? __Perhaps! WHO KNOWS? ONLY TIME WILL TELL!_

_Hope you've enjoyed this little shit I've written. Let me know what you think so that I may improve my writing for the future, please! Thanks, loves!_


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